


The Fall of Nations

by AwesomeMe



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allies, Axis - Freeform, Character Death, Cities, F/M, Fall of Nations, FoN - Freeform, M/M, PortUK, TFoN, The Fall of Nations, Violence, World War III
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeMe/pseuds/AwesomeMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is changing... they can feel it... shifting beneath their feet. All the wars left scars, and Portugal was not unblemished. After this, many would remember that it started with the Siege of Lisbon. And no one would expect that enemy... especially not him. Features almost all nations. WW3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I; Chapter 1 - Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of all things to do, England remembers. And he realizes that the moments when he betrayed him were more than the moments when he helped him - and still, those are the ones he treasures most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy~ 
> 
> Vocabulary:
> 
> meninos (PT): kids

_ The Fall Of The Nations _

_ Act I - The Players _

_ Chapter I - Memories _

* * *

"Hey Britain!" Arthur Kirkland sighed heavily and closed his book softly, putting it down to face the cheerful face of the nation made of fifty states.

America grinned excitedly at the much older nation in front of him and straightened up from the crouch he was in, in front of England's couch. Britain frowned at America's gigantic height as he looked up at him. Even if Britain stood up to his maximum height, he was still a whole lot shorter than America and it annoyed him to no end.

But he forced himself to smile politely at the larger nation like the gentleman he was.

"Hello, America" He greeted, lacing his fingers together in his lap "What brings you here?"  _And how did you get in?_

"The date of the World Meeting was altered because Spain couldn't host it in that day" The always-cheerful nation replied "Some big football game that he had to watch"

England scoffed at that. Of course the Hispanic nation would alter the date of a World Meeting because of some stupid football game. Ever since he had won the World Cup, Antonio couldn't shut up about how football was an essential sport and just how great he was at it.

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow, by 4 P.M" Was the reply from the North-American "And he said he was going to bring a friend"

This caught England's already wandering attention. The ex-empire shot America a suspicious look and frowned.

"And who might that be?"

"Uh... I can't remember the name... He said it was his older brother" The American's voice rose in excitement as a juvenile grin spread across his face "Can you believe it? I didn't even know that Spain had an older brother! Antonio said he was really good at football as well!"

Alfred kept on babbling about how he had been  _completely unaware_  of Spain's older brother, his tone of voice rising slightly due to the hero's excitement, but that first part had made the Englishman's heart freeze in his chest and his blood run cold.

 _He said it was his older brother._  No... It couldn't be. A somewhat annoying ache began to rise within the gentleman's chest, caressing the borders of the muscle that provided him with life and clutching at his lungs. It was getting progressively harder to breathe.

"What was the name?" The American pondered to himself "Portival? Portucalm? Poorugal?"

But England wasn't listening anymore. Memories, as ethereal as ghosts and as painful as pain itself were flooding into his mind, blocking his hearing and vision as his head spun with the past he had desperately tried to forget.

* * *

" _Aren't you going to drink as well?" A teenage England asked, trying to control his tipsy slur._

_A young man about his age, wearing reddish brown hair tied loosely in a low ponytail smiled slightly._

" _No, thank you. I have to be back to my capital tomorrow by the break of dawn and besides, I already drank something"_

" _I bet it was that wine of yours! You should start drinking like a man!" Teenage England affirmed, offering him a glass of rum._

" _What's wrong with my wine?" The other man growled defensively "Alright. I'll drink your stupid drink! I'll prove it to you that I'm ten times the man you are!" And, just like that, he downed a bottle of rum to the sound of England's excited claps._

* * *

" _I kicked your brother's ass" Britain smirked smugly as he sipped on his tea. The same man from the previous memory was sitting next to him, frowning slightly._

" _Serves him good. What was he thinking, facing the British Armada?" He scowled slightly and then his expression eased into a smile and he raised his cup of tea "To friendship"_

_Britain smiled and his cup met his friend's._

" _To friendship"_

* * *

" _It's your country or your colonies" The man in front of Britain growled as two kids, both black-skinned clung to his legs tightly, whimpering._

_The smallest was a girl, dressed in a simple dress that reached her knees, and the other one was a boy of fierce eyes and a permanent frown, even when he sobbed into his foster father's leg._

" _Do you really have no heart, to take mere children from a father's care?" The country that held them spat "What have you become? I thought you were a gentleman"_

" _I am a gentleman. I convinced my queen to send your king an ultimatum. If it weren't for me, you would have been directly invaded and faced with your king's head. Now hand them over"_

" _Never"_

" _Your king has already accepted to give up those colonies" The shocking truth hit the man's face like a ton of bricks and his grip on the children's shoulders loosened._

" _He would never..."_

" _He did"_

_A moment of silence stretched out between the two countries. Finally, the man let go of the kids was pushed them gently towards the blond empire._

" _Go on, meninos. You can go with that man over there. He won't hurt you" And the children stumbled towards an expecting England, who took them roughly and ordered an officer of his to lead them to their quarters._

" _Thank you. I'm happy I didn't have to spill your blood" The blond man said, but the brunette turned around and didn't answer._

" _Leave" Was the only thing he said, and England bowed his head in shame. Without another word, not wanting the younger country to shed tears in front of him, the empire left his old friend to weep._

_England cried when he got home._

* * *

And then, there was that memory, the most painful of all of them. It almost brought tears to the already distressed British nation.

* * *

" _Hey Iggy!" A child's voice shouted, and a kid England turned to see his best friend ever running towards him, with a smile so big that it threatened to spilt the infant's face in two._

" _Porty!" He shouted back in greeting. One might be taken aback by England's carefree behavior, but let's not forget that England was but a child and he had the innocence of one._

_When the young country reached England, he almost bumped into the would-be gentleman._

" _Guess what!" He exclaimed._

" _What!"_

" _My king is at Windsor right now! He's planning on making an alliance with your king! We're going to be like brothers!" His voice was trembling with excitement and England could finally understand the dimension of the other youth's smile._

_His own smile tore through his face._

" _That's wonderful!" He shouted, laughing loudly. His best friend leaned forward and motioned for England to do the same thing._

" _They're signing a treaty, full of those official and fancy words. Why don't we make a treaty of our own?" Arthur eyed the brunette with amazement._

" _That's an excellent idea!"_

_And so the two children fetched some paper and a quill and climbed one fairly large hill until they were at the top. On top of that hill, there was a single tree of long branches. It was their secret spot._

" _How are we going to write without ink?" The English kid asked the other one, frowning, but the brunette merely smiled and shook his head, making his low ponytail bounce._

_England would never understand why his friend liked to use his hair sort of long, like France's, since he had never liked the frog anyway, but he never complained about it._

" _Silly England. We're going to write it with our blood!" He exclaimed as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet. England hoisted one of his most shocked looks._

" _We can't do that!" He hissed "We'll die!"_

" _England, countries can't die!" The brunette replied, shaking his head in amusement "I think you're just scared"_

" _I am absolutely not scared!" England looked almost offended "Let's do this"_

_Luckily, the Iberian boy had brought his pocket knife. He placed it carefully above Arthur's palm and pressed down, sliding it slightly to cut the skin. He was young and inexperienced and the cut was a bit deeper than he expected but the English boy didn't complain when the blood squirted out of the wound. The Iberian boy repeated the action with himself and took the quill carefully._

_He dipped the tip on the blood that had pooled on the palm of his left hand and began to write._

" _What are you going to write?" The short-haired boy peered curiously over the other's shoulder._

" _Well, it's a treaty, so we have to put some fancy words in it. My king taught me all about it!" The Iberian child answered absent-mindedly as he scribbled on the paper. England hummed in agreement and watched as words were engraved into the paper._

" _Now we add the vows!" His Iberian friend chirped happily._

" _Vows?" England repeated, shooting him a suspicious look "Are we getting married?" Both boys turned a little green at the thought before bursting out in laughter._

" _Of course not, silly! But we have to make certain promises to each other! Here! I'll start!"He turned his attention back to the paper "I hereby promise that I will never, ever, betray you, England, and I will always be there when you need me"_

" _Here, let me write too!" The British country requested and pulled the paper free from his best friend. He took the quill and dipped it into the pool of his own blood. The wound was already closing and the pain was only a dull ache, now._

" _I promise that I will always stand by your side. I promise that I will never betray you and I will always help you when you need me." And then, as an afterthought "Especially against that frog-face"_

_The brunette took the treaty back and read it carefully. He then handed it over to England for the British nation to check as well. When the document got the approval of both friends, the long-haired boy scribbled down the last patch of "fancy words" and signed his name._

" _Here" He said, handing it to England "Sign your name here" The British nation did as he was asked and then asked:_

" _What now?"_

" _Now, we shake hands" And the Iberian nation extended his bloody hand. England scrunched up his face._

" _That hand is dirty"_

" _I know" The other kid sighed exasperatedly "That's the point! We'll mix our blood to make the alliance official" England didn't feel the need to remind the other boy that it was the treaty being signed at Windsor that would make the alliance official._

_He extended his hand and took the Iberian boy's one. They shook hands firmly, like grown-ups would do and then smiled to each other. As one, they pressed their palms into the already bloody paper. Their handprints weren't perfect, but they were theirs and it made them feel special._

_By the end of the day, when the night fell, the Iberian kid was invited to stay at England's place and both boys wore the biggest smiles of their lives._

* * *

"Percival... Nortugel... No, that wasn't it..." Back in the present day, America was still trying to figure out the name of that brother of Spain's. England forced air into his burning lungs.

"Portugal"

"What?" The oblivious nation eyed Britain wearily.

"His name is Portugal"

"Yeah! That was it!" Alfred laughed happily before taking in the state in which Britain was in that moment "Yo, Britain! You ok, dude?"

"I'm fine" Britain assured the younger nation, managing a scowl "Tell Spain that I will be there tomorrow. Four in the morning, you say?"

"In the afternoon. What is it with you?" The American nation frowned suspiciously at the odd behavior of the United Kingdom.

"I am perfectly fine, America, now kindly remove yourself from my presence, you wanker!" The younger blond huffed in annoyance but walked out of Britain's living room. A few moments later, Arthur heard the door slam and he winced at the loud volume of it.

Only then did the British nation allow himself to lean back and dive into the memories he had long since locked away. His breath caught and his head swarmed with the overflow of painful memories that he thought he had forgotten, or at least locked tightly. He shut his eyes as he felt the whispers of a migraine touching his mind.

"That was ages ago. It was just a piece of paper. It does not mean anything" He whispered to himself, shuddering as the ghostly whispers echoed through the empty house.

But he could not stop the all-too-vivid images from flowing into his field of vision. He clenched his teeth painfully as another one wormed its way into his mind.

* * *

" _I need your help" Portugal said, keeping his voice low and talking exclusively to England. The empire frowned._

" _I thought you... No, forget it" He gave up that train-of-thought before it came into dangerous territory, but the Iberian nation caught on quickly._

" _You thought I what?" He insisted, frowning as well. It was an expression England hated to see on his friend's face. Even with the vertical scar over his right eye, Portugal was quite handsome, but that frown changed his expression and turned his chocolate stare darker._

_For a moment, that was not Portugal, the hyperactive carefree nation, but Portugal, the one who had discovered half of the world._

" _It's nothing" The British Empire insisted, shaking his head and turning to leave, but a sudden hand clutching at his forearm stopped all his motions. He turned to see his long-time friend looking at him in fierce determination._

" _What was it?" And his tone was so final, so determined, that England could do nothing but tell the truth._

" _I thought you hated me. You know... for taking them away from you" He scratched the back of his head in unspoken embarrassment. He had never forgiven himself for doing what he had been forced to do, and he had expected the other country to loath him with a passion._

_It had clearly been betrayal that was written in his face, that day._

" _I don't hate you" England gaped at Portugal. The frown disappeared and was replaced by a radiant smile "I could never hate you"_

" _You... don't hate me?"_

" _We're best friends, right? We stand by each other's side" The ancient Iberian nation smiled a wide smile and let go of England._

" _Right. What was it that you wanted from me?"_

" _I have been invaded by that frog-face, France." The Portuguese nation shook his head while England half-growled. "My army was unprepared. I need your help to drive them out of my country"_

" _I will help" Was the immediate answer from England. He would later regret not having thought of what his government would think of that. Portugal nodded, but kept unusually quiet._

" _What is it, Portugal? You're so quiet, today" The gentlemanly empire prodded, trying to pinpoint the exact source of his sort-of-younger-brother's agony._

" _It's Antonio" The Iberian nation finally said after a couple of minutes of eerie silence. This perked Arthur's attention. He had never heard the Portuguese sound so sad when talking about his brother. Enraged? Yes, definitely, but never sad. "He's allied himself with France"_

_England was shocked into silence for a while. To think that Portugal's brother would ally himself with France of all people to invade his own brother was... outrageous, at the very least. And then he produced a sad smile._

" _That's rough, buddy" And proceeded to fetch them both glasses that he could fill with the wonderful invention that was alcohol._

* * *

" _You can't"_

" _... I'm sorry, Portugal, I really am"_

" _You... You lied to me"_

" _I'm sorry. Oh, and from now on, call me 'sir'" He hated himself for it, for what his government was doing to Portugal. They were almost conquering the small country for themselves, taking the trust that had been put in their hands and crushing it to tiny little bits._

_It wasn't his fault really, but Arthur Kirkland felt as if he was stabbing his friend in the back._

* * *

Those had just been examples, simple strokes in a full drawing. Their history was like a novel written by someone seriously depressed, full of betrayal and suspicion, in a treaty where the English nation had benefitted more than his continental friend.

And now... Tomorrow... He would see his friend – if he still considered them friends after all those years of betrayal and profiting from the sidelines – again. He lightly wondered what had happened to the Iberian nation. Had he grown? Had he changed his ever-present low ponytail? Had his liquid-chocolate gaze hardened? Or was he the same as ever?

He knew Portugal was facing an economical crisis and that Germany had been very supportive of the brunette, as had been other countries. His brother Spain had visited the sinking nation quite a lot in the previous months. Alfred's president had made the mistake of insulting the nation and so Alfred himself had gone to apologize personally to the offended nation. It turns out that Portugal had kicked Alfred out of his house with threats of setting his bomber jacket on fire.

Britain snorted a little at the mental image that generated in his mind. Finally someone to put that bloody wanker back in place! But he couldn't help but worry over this. If the Portuguese Republic had become so touchy about one little mistake, then surely he would hate Britain for years of betrayal, right?

But Alfred and Portugal hadn't spent the majority of their lives together as brothers. And Portugal had forgiven France, of all people, who had invaded him not one, but three times. He had even forgiven his brother for centuries of fighting and bickering. Portugal just wasn't one to hold grudges against people. However, doubt was still clouding Britain's heart.

Those people – except maybe for Spain – weren't Portugal's best friends. They weren't always together baking mud pies or training sorcery and they hadn't signed the world's oldest diplomatic treaty with him. They weren't as close to the Iberian nation as Britain was and the Brit was sure that his betrayal had cost Portugal more than the Iberian Union, the Napoleonic Invasions and the Independence of Brazil together.

Maybe he was just too full of himself. His huge eyebrows came together as the Brit frowned at his closed book. Maybe Portugal really had forgiven him because he didn't think that highly of their friendship. Maybe he thought that his relationship with Spain was worth investing in, now. The blond snorted at the thought.

His mind wandered back through the times, fixating itself on a specific event. The Independence of Brazil. That was one of the things they had in common – they both knew what it was like to be betrayed by your own brother as he gained independence. He could never forget the day that Portugal stumbled into his house drenched in rain and blood and stinking of some cheap alcoholic drink he had surely bought in one of England's pubs.

Green eyes darkened considerably. The brunette had cried for hours, mumbling incoherent things as the Brit slowly but comfortingly stroked his hair. He had loved that boy with all he had and the foolish American nation had declared independence. Britain felt like that was the moment he could relate the most to Portugal. Painful flashes of America's Independence War, had him shaking to keep the tears inside his body, but he shook his head.

It was getting dark, and he had to go to sleep. He would think stuff over the next day. It couldn't be that bad... could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> PS: The scene where England takes the two kids away from Portugal represents the British Ultimatum. I know the British Ultimatum didn't actually involve any military action, but as countries are represented by people, I would assume Portugal had already taken in the two kids, before consulting his superiors.


	2. Act I; Chapter 2 - Disturbance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Portugal comes in, some more stuff happens, which ends in unneeded awkwardness, a lot of nervousness and a beyond ashamed Russia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, enjoy~ Also, OST: A Portuguesa (The Portuguese) - Portugal's National Anthem.
> 
> Vocabulary: 
> 
> República Portuguesa (PT): Portuguese Republic

_ The Fall Of Nations _

_ Act I – The Players _

_ Chapter II - Disturbance _

* * *

The World Conference room was chaos, just like always, Britain noticed as he stifled a loud yawn. He had barely gotten a wink of sleep last night, thinking about every possible reaction Portugal could have to him and how he would react back.

He had tried to sleep in to make up for the lost sleep, but his boss had booked him an early flight and he wasn't about to miss the World Meeting. It would make him look rude, not to mention that Portugal would surely think that he was absent because of him... which was the truth, but Britain didn't want Spain's brother to know that.

Portugal, Portugal... Since the previous day every thought that was filtered through the Brit's mind seemed to revolve around the Iberian nation. How Portugal would react to his presence, would he hate him, would he smile, would he punch him... How would he look like...

The blonde shook himself awake, blinking several times to wipe the sleep out of his emerald eyes. The meeting hadn't begun yet, but almost every nation had already arrived due to their early flights, or just because they missed their friends. He spotted Alfred talking to Japan in quite the friendly tone and smiled.

Ever since they had made amends – and Japan started agreeing with whatever America suggested – the two were the best of friends. A little green monster tugged at his heart and his smile faded from his lips. He eyed the other blonde possessively.

 _I saw him first_. He fumed in silence.  _He's mine_. He almost growled loudly.

Only a handful of nations were absent. Germany was quietly talking to his Italian companion and coolly ignoring Romano's glares, while Prussia hovered over them and butted in occasionally, boasting about his 'awesome self'.

The other nations were there as well, even Russia, sitting next to a terrified Latvia, even though the huge nation wasn't doing anything to even acknowledge the smaller nation. It didn't' stop the child to shake in his seat, though.

Britain could help but wonder about Russia. The icy nation was kind of... quiet lately. He always sat alone, head buried in his scarf, without even making an effort to join any occurring conversation, watching the groups with a certain longing in his stare. He looked almost lonely.

Britain made a mental note to reinforce his defenses just in case Russia tried to be 'friends' with him. He was fairly sure the bigger nation wouldn't do anything – he  _was_  under the protection of the United Nations – but better safe than sorry, as they say.

France was absent, he noticed. The blonde wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Britain could only hope he hadn't forgotten the meeting in favor of hanging out with some charming lady he met in the streets.

The host himself – Spain – was absent, but that was because he had insisted on picking his brother up personally. He had driven all the way up to Lisbon to pick up his brother so he didn't have to get up so early and should be returning any time now.

And then, of course, there was Portugal. Arthur felt his stomach turn into a painful knot, threatening to spill his recently eaten toast and tea. He couldn't believe he was so nervous because of some nation. But it wasn't some nation,  _Gods, no!_  This was Portugal, his best friend since ever, even before Spain had been born, way before the treaty of Windsor had been signed.

This was Portugal, who had stepped in front of Germany because  _England_  had asked him to, who had suffered from a war he didn't plan on fighting because  _England_  had threatened to attack him if he didn't. It was Portugal who had surrendered his two youngest children to the British Empire because  _England_  wanted to build a bloody railroad.

He heard the door open and the nations cease their informal chatter almost abruptly. The blonde shifted uncomfortably as he looked up, but all he saw was the bloody frog impeccable in his suit heading towards him, with a small smirk painted on his lips.

The nations returned to their chit-chat, ignoring the Frenchman who had just entered. Britain thought that it was safe to say that many countries wanted to see Portugal – some for the first time. He was a reclusive country – which was weird considering he was Portugal, He Who Tamed the Sea – and liked to stay within his borders. Plus, he wasn't very influential, so he never attended this sort of meetings.

Japan looked disappointed.  _Well, Portugal_ _ **was**_ _the first European that ever set foot on his land... And they became such good friends, too..._  Britain scowled as the frog sat down next to him.

"I'm afraid I've cause some disappointment, Mon Cher" The blonde laughed softly, with his silky voice "I hope you're not  _too_  disappointed to see me"

"Go away, frog. I don't have the patience to deal with you, right now" The Brit snarled back, scowling deeply.

Francis backed off, laughing again.

"Touchy are we? Let me guess, you just can't  _wait_  to see your 'ami' again" The Frenchman's voice was mocking, but Britain could feel some seriousness hidden behind layers and layers of the frog's perverted nature.

"You can't wait either, so I guess that makes two of us, frog" Francis frowned.

"I never said that I didn't want to see him. Like it or not, Portugal is my friend"

"Good for you, now bugger off!"

France opened his mouth to retort – and possibly further annoy the Englishman – but whatever answer he had in mind never made it to the world and his voice died in his throat and he turned around to face the door.

So entranced he had been in his bickering with France, Britain hadn't realized that the door had opened again and the conversations had ceased once again.

His green eyes struggled to focus on everything at once. In came Spain, his back to the crowd as he walked backwards with a silly grin on his lips. One could tell he was really happy, for his eyes creased as he smiled and his eyes seemed to lighten. He was spouting some gibberish in Spanish to the person following behind him.

And then  _he_ stepped into the room, walking casually with his hands jammed into his pockets. Britain's breath got caught in his throat.

He was a bit taller than Arthur remembered – about two inches – but the rest of him looked so  _incredibly_  familiar! His hair was the exact shade of reddish brown, with the exact same chocolate stare and the exact same tanned skin that went so well with his complexion.

Even the vertical scar that crossed his right eye looked the same.

Portugal was well-built, and was dressed in a simple shirt and coat, along with a matching pair of pants. He answered Antonio's Spanish with some Portuguese of his own, speaking rapidly in his native tongue and England couldn't help but feel captivated by the deep throaty voice that he remembered oh-so-well.

The room had begun to whisper quietly, commenting to others about their first impression of Portugal. Arthur shot a quick glance at his watch. They were right on time, not even a second late.

Finally, the two brothers seemed to notice the ghostly silence that hovered over them and Spain turned to smile amiably to the nations gathered in the Conference room.

"Hello and welcome to Madrid. I'm very sorry for changing the meeting' time on such short notice, but I was just recently informed of the match on the day" He greeted politely, sidestepping to allow Portugal to take his side "Today we will have a new nation attending this meeting, seeing as some of the topics are about him too"

Arthur realized that it was probably time to give Portugal another rescue loan, since the previous one had already been used. At least they were working to fix their economical situation, Arthur thought.

"This is my older brother" Spain continued, motioning towards Portugal who nodded in greeting "I'll let him introduce himself"

"Good afternoon" The Iberian nation said, eyeing every nation in the room – with the exception of Arthur, who he just seemed to purposefully skip over "I'm the República Portuguesa, or Portugal, otherwise known as Afonso Sousa Carriedo, Spain's older brother" He spoke.

The nations muttered their own greetings, feeling the unease in the room raise tenfold. Russia said nothing and merely nodded in Afonso's direction.

"Have a seat. We will begin immediately" Spain indicated, moving towards his own seat next to Prussia.

England never hated France and Prussia as much as he hated them in that moment. They filled the seats next to him, denying him any chance to invite Portugal to sit by him –  _if_  the Iberian nation wanted to sit by him, that is.

Instead, the Portuguese nation looked at the available seats – next to Russia, next to Switzerland or next to Greece – and made his choice. Arthur might have thought that he was obsessing a little too much, had he been any less nervous, but in the state he was, he barely noticed that he has his eyes glued to the Portuguese man in front of him.

His stride was both casual and proud, shortening the distance between Afonso and his preferred seat, which took many nations by surprise, England included. Switzerland might have been a bit over-obsessed with neutrality and Greece a bit too lazy, but to choose the seat next to Russia of his own free will was something that the ex-pirate never expected his old friend to do.

Britain was literally shaking in his boots as the Iberian nations approached the ex-soviet nation.

* * *

"Hello" The Portuguese man greeted politely when he was standing next to the empty seat next to Russia.

The Russian didn't even respond – he didn't even  _blink_  – instead he kept on focusing on Spain. But Afonso was used to being ignored at first and just figured that a great nation like Russia would find himself above a small country like him. He didn't give up though. Smiling confidently, Portugal extended one hand, barely noticing the sharp intake of breath that Latvia took, and tapped the icy country on the shoulder.

He was quite taken aback when the ashy blond man almost jumped out of his skin and turned around, pouring a strange aura out of his body. Afonso lightly wondered why there was a "kolkol" sound in the air.

"Hi! May I seat here?" And he pointed to the empty seat next to the big-boned nation. Violet eyes blinked momentarily and the aura dissipated, along with the "kolkol" sound.

"You want to seat here?" The brunette noted the emphasis on the "want" as if the reclusive nation was surprised someone would want to seat next to him on their own free will. What a strange fellow, Portugal couldn't help but wonder.

"Sure. May I?"

"Da, if you wish" Portugal wasn't very good with languages – even if he  _was_  better than Alfred, Arthur or his brother Spain – but he got the affirmative intonation of the phrase and sat down, leaning back in a relaxed manner.

Spain began talking, introducing the topics they would be discussing to everyone, making sure that everyone was prepared to intervene and thanking the group of nations for attending to the meeting. Portugal muffled a hearty laugh behind his hand. Other countries couldn't quite catch it – except for maybe the Southern part of Italy – but for Portugal, the nervousness in Spain's voice was as clear as crystal.

Then again, Spain always got nervous when he tried to impress his big brother.

"What's so funny?" Came a childish voice from beside him. Forest green eyes turned to gaze at the Russian Federation before turning back to his brother.

"Spain's really nervous because I'm here. He wants to impress me" He explained, smiling slightly as he lifted one hand to scratch his scar lightly. After all those years, it still itched sometimes.

"He doesn't look nervous. He looks like he always does" The man insisted, turning fully to Afonso, who spared him another look.

"I lived with Spain almost all of my life. I know when he's nervous" Was his only answer, as he scratched the scar again, hoping to calm the incessant itching. This obviously caught Ivan's attention.

"What's that?"

"A scar" The Russian beside him chuckled darkly.

"I can see that, comrade. I meant, where did you get it?" Afonso was delving into dangerous territory and he knew it. He could feel the threatening aura that poured out of Russia's body in large amounts involving him, like the sweet but deathly embrace of a mistress.

But Portugal was daring – he  _had_  discovered the world, after all – plus, he was good at football, even if that didn't have anything to do with the current situation.

"It's private" He answered, turning his attention back to the nervous Antonio and ignoring for a moment the deranged Russian sitting next to him.

Bad move.

He didn't even see it coming.

* * *

Spain could be ranting about how everyone in the world was going to form an alliance to invade Britain that Arthur wouldn't have listened. His eyes and mind were set on the oldest Iberian brother, who was currently sitting next to Russia, arms folded loosely and a peaceful look on his face.

He hadn't looked in Britain's direction not even once since the beginning of the meeting and Arthur was getting more and more nervous.

There was a momentary pause on Spain's speech and the whole room seemed to freeze. Arthur was the first to see it, as he had been observing Afonso during the entire meeting.

Spain was next, because he had paused his speech specifically to spare a quick glance at his brother. France was third because he happened to look at England and followed his line of vision.

Apparently, Portugal had been chatting away with Ivan, obviously paying no mind to the actual content of Spain's speech, and now, there was a metal pipe flying towards his head, while his head was turned to Spain.

The British ex-empire felt his heart stop in his chest as he watched in growing terror as Russia's pipe came closer and closer to his friend's head. Portugal had no chance of dodging it; it was coming at a greater speed than he remembered the Iberian man to have.

Arthur couldn't look away, couldn't close his eyes, he could only watch as the pipe continued its merry way to smash the head of a dear friend of his.

And then, Portugal's hand was there, stopping the pipe short from hitting the right side of his head. His hand shook a little under the unexpected pressure, but held its ground and the pipe stopped completely. He hadn't even turned his head to face Ivan and he hadn't moved a muscle.

Latvia let out a cry of anxiousness, but stayed in his seat – too terrified of Russia to do anything – and Spain could only watch as a cry of protest died in his lips. France was completely shocked, jaw hanging open like a drowning fish – if there was such a thing. The other countries just stared in shock.

As for Arthur, he had the most out-of-character reaction one could think of. He jumped up from his seat and bolted to Portugal's side, pushing the confused Russian out of the way roughly.

"Are you mad?" He shouted at the clueless nation, who was naturally very surprised that someone had stopped his attack "Attacking another nation in a time of peace?"

"I wasn't attacking him" If Arthur's blood wasn't boiling at the moment, he would've noticed that Russia sound almost pleading, but he was completely enraged and so he pressed on.

"Oh, I suppose you were just showing him how good you were at baseball"

"Dude..." America whined quietly "Calm down" That one was a bit stronger.

"Like hell I'll calm down, you bloody wanker! He could've killed him" He was near hysterics now, as he strained to keep his trembling body under control. It was the nerves getting the best of him, he told himself, but it didn't keep him from feeling as if he could kill Russia, in that moment.

"I... I'm sorry" Russia's answer was quiet enough that no other country but Latvia, Portugal and Britain heard it, but most got the message.

"Deixa-o em paz, Inglaterra (Leave him alone, England)" A new voice ordered, sounding as laid back as ever. England froze in his tracks, hands still tangled in Russia's scarf, turned into fists.

His green eyes turned ever so slowly to fixate on the new target, ignoring the violet eyes that they had been previously glaring at. Green met darker green and England didn't know what to say. His vocal chords tightened and he could feel his voice grow hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in days.

"I was just..."

"Trying to kill Russia" The other man finished, narrowing his eyes a little "You've certainly grown a lot more bloodthirsty" And then, as an afterthought "Not that you weren't, already"

"I didn't mean..."

"To strangle him with his own scarf?" England couldn't bring himself to turn his stare somewhere else. The green depths of Portugal's eyes drew him closer, forced him to drown there...

 _Snap out of it_ , he chastised himself, _Bite back. That's Portugal. You know him since you were both little kids._

"Oh, quit it, git" The Brit snapped at the Iberian nation "Don't act like you aren't grateful that I saved your sorry arse" His voice got rougher towards the end, nearly cracking and he hated himself for it – that one little moment of weakness.

The room was deathly quiet now. Even America, to the shock of everyone, quieted down. All the nations present had their eyes trained on the scene before them. The Englishman was no longer holding Russia, but he was still close to the cold nation as that same nation seemed to wish for nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole. Both were staring confusedly at the newcomer.

Violet eyes tinged with confusion, a deep helplessness that could only be found if one took a leap of faith towards the others eyes.

Green eyes tainted with the painful memories of more than half a hundred years gazed at the other ones. The new ones.

Darker, military green eyes gazed over the emerald ones, dark with disappointment.

* * *

" _Don't. Please don't take Macau. Please. He's all I got left"_

" _Forgive me"_

* * *

" _Choose. Apprehend the German ships or surrender your country"_

" _You know I'm not strong enough for a war right now"_

" _I'm sorry"_

* * *

" _Arthur!"_

" _Afonso"_

* * *

" _I'm sorry..."_

* * *

" _Forgive me..."_

* * *

The silence was unbearable. Everyone was quiet but, for once, England wished they would all start yelling at the same time. He silently begged them to react. One minute ticked by. Two minutes.

"Arthur" Anything. He could have chosen to say anything. Anything at all. But he chose his name alone.

"Afonso"

"You're shorter"

A moment more passed. And then both men burst out laughing. Arthur bent forward, grabbing his knees to support himself while tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. Afonso threw his head back and let out a loud, hearty laugh.

After a while, the laughter died down, and both nations were able to regain their composure. Portugal's eyes retained their previous mirth, while England's were veiled by a thin layer or anxiety.

"Apologize to Russia" Portugal suggested in a friendly tone "And here I thought you were a gentleman"

"Forgive my rudeness, Ivan" He even went as far as using Russia's human name to appease Portugal "My reaction was out of place. I'm sure you meant him no harm. I hope I didn't offend you"

"No offense was taken, comrade" Was Ivan's quiet answer. He looked a bit flustered and Arthur might have taken a note of how out-of-character this was if the situation was different.

"We're attracting quite a bit of attention here" Portugal noted "Perhaps we should take this conversation to a place a bit more... privado (private)." He gestured for the door that led to the hallway "What do you say?"

"I agree, old chap" Arthur followed Afonso out of the room, struggling to avoid the empty stares of the other nations.

As soon as the two troublesome nations were out of the room, Spain cleared his throat, aiming to get everyone's attention.

"Well, let us continue the meeting, si?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, stay tuned for another chapter! Also, an important note about how this story is structured: 
> 
> This story is organized in Acts. Each act has a main plot point and is divided into chapters. Each chapter tells the story (obviously...). So it should look a little something like this:
> 
> Plot - Act - Chapter
> 
> Each Act will have a set amount of chapters and the story has a set amount of Acts (think about them as Arcs from Animes).


	3. Act I; Chapter 3 - Good Ol' Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France remembers and compares. Russia can't comprehend. And America wonders. A fight breaks out, but that's normal, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy~ 
> 
> OST: Thank You (by Ryan Huston); Empty (by The Click Five); Every Time We Touch [Slow] (by Cascada).

_ The Fall of Nations _

_ Act I – The Players _

_ Chapter III – Good Ol' Days _

* * *

The meeting room was silent for a great deal of time after the departure of Portugal and the ex-pirate nation. Spain threw a dubious glance at the door they had both disappeared into, before clearing his throat with a loud noise. The noise came as a bucket of cold water for the other nations, who shifted their troubled stare to Spain.

The youngest Iberian nation cleared his throat again, as a nervous act, and then stood up straight, rotating his shoulders backwards.

"What had happened here was clearly a misunderstanding" He began, addressing everyone in the room "They went to solve their problem outside. That's fine" He paused unsurely, glancing at Romano's scowling face for some sort of security "We shall continue the meeting until they come back. I was talking about the problem of global warming and how it may affect our productions"

Switzerland stood up.

"It's fairly obvious that if the temperature rises even more, there will be problems with our agriculture. The crops will dry or they won't even bloom." He declared in his usual monotone "That would surely damage our economies, since you lot can't afford to buy rations to all of your cattle and then to produce vitamins when your children feel the effects of not eating vegetables"

Italy raised his hand and grinned at the trigger-happy nation.

"But children love candy!" He exclaimed enthusiastically "Can't we just focus on mass producing candy?"

"Italy, that is a completely ludicrous idea!" The German sitting next to him roared and some nations mumble din agreement "They would all suffer from bad dental health"

"Then we could buy more doctors!" The Mediterranean nation suggested happily. Germany sighed heavily and brought his hand to his face.

"That is even more ridiculous. And where would we get the money to do that?"

"That's easy! We could borrow it from Mr. Switzerland!" The Swiss bellowed a negative answer and some other countries got up, screaming at the smaller nation, only to be faced with a crying Italy and a beyond-pissed Germany, while Japan defended his friend just as fiercely as the Germanic nation.

Needless to say, chaos was blooming quickly among the nations as the recent quarrel between England and Russia was thrown to the back of their minds. Three countries, however, weren't participating in the discussion. They weren't even listening to it.

The first one was France. The nation of love was just sitting idly in his previous position, eyeing the discussion with disinterest. His mind was alight with questions, though.

He couldn't help but wonder. Afonso seemed so... down, when he had entered the room. Those around him had seen a man standing tall and proud, smiling kindly to the others around him – perhaps even acting a little bit shy, standing besides Antonio. They had seen yet another country. Nothing too special about him.

But France had faced this man in battle and had stood beside him in war. He had laughed with him, laughed at him. He had smiled and scowled at the Iberian nation. However, no matter how great the disadvantage in war was, or how fearsome the tales of seas yet to sail, not even once had he seen Portugal flinch back or tremble in the face of danger.

Not even when he had faced his brother Spain, with an army far inferior to Antonio's, had he seen – from afar, of course; he was merely passing by – the slightest hint of fear tint those deep green eyes, so similar to his brother's, yet darker.

And very rarely – it had happened only on extremely selective occasions – had he seen Afonso look defeated.

Now, the man didn't hold half the spark, half the light that he used to. He didn't look half the man Francis knew he was. His shoulders were partially hunched, in what could be considered like a 'normal stance' to other people, to other countries. Portugal, however, always walked with the straightest of backs. Francis and Antonio had often mocked the older country about it – in other times,  _happier times_.

So that single gesture, the involuntary shrug of shoulders, the slight hunch, the way his eyes sometimes diverged to the ground... He looked  _defeated_. Not the 'slightly annoyed' defeated that he sometimes looked when he lost an important football match –  _Mon Dieu_ _, the man could be such a football hooligan, sometimes!_  – or that 'ok-you-won' defeated look that he wore when he lost a friendly match –  _Again, everything about the man seemed to revolve around football!_

This was involuntary, true defeat.

Francis' scowl deepened as he eyed the door wearily. He didn't seem awfully out-of-character, though. He might bear the stance of defeat, now, but his eyes still held a twinkle of light, that little spark that France had witnessed when they had told Afonso that he  _couldn't_  travel by sea.

It was a spark of defiance, of sheer determination. It was a sparkle that told them that they  _couldn't tell him how to live his life!_  Turns out the man had built a small fleet and set sail. And what do you know? He had actually managed to carve his own way to India through the sea.

Nobody else seemed to pay attention to him, even being unusually quiet. The discussion had escalated into a large-scale fight with countries picking sides and screaming at each other. Even Germany seemed to have given up on trying maintaining order and instead was protecting a white-flag-waving North Italy with a fierceness that rivaled that of a lion.

Francis laughed his French laugh. Oh, young love... How wonderful. He would have to tease them about it later. Speaking of which... His eyes trailed to where Romano was trying to shake a clingy Spain off of him. He chuckled again. Young love indeed.

His mind wandered back to Afonso. It had to be the economy, he concluded. His government, forcing him to give up some of his national holidays – some, even, of great importance. A failing economy, even when slowly regaining balance, weighted greatly on a nation's shoulders. But, truth to be told, Portugal had always been in an economical crisis.

France snickered quietly to himself. Each of Portugal's rulers had been greedier than the previous one and each rule ended up in an economical crisis – except that one with Salazar, but he didn't think too much about it. For those only watching, it was rather amusing, comical even. And even Afonso himself, between a glass of alcohol and other, sometimes shared a laugh with his companions.

But, as of lately – for a century, give or take a few decades – Afonso had kept to himself, confined to the comfort of his own country. Few nations had seen him since his self-imposed imprisonment. France had had a glass of wine with him now and then – a fine, rich Porto – and he knew for sure that Arthur had shared a cup of tea with the copper-haired man once or twice.

But nations began to partially forget him, even nations he had previously been a friend of. The image they had of Afonso, even his name, had faded from their minds. France found it quite amusing that he was thinking of the nations as if he was separate from them. He, too, had let the memories fade from his mind, occupied with two world wars of epic proportions.

He knew Afonso had joined them in the first one – terribly tragic, that one was – forced by Arthur to take a side, forced out of his neutrality by the same person he called 'best friend'. Germany had not been amused when ships transporting important provisions and personnel were apprehended and he found a chocolate-haired man staring dreamily into the starry sky, from the top of his ship.

He could do nothing about it, though, as a smile was offered in his general direction and the Portuguese army began flooding into the ship, screaming at Germany and clutching at their weapons. The Arian had to flee in a fit of rage, cursing Afonso to Hell and back. After that, it was war for the small Iberian nation.

"Big Brother France?" He jumped in his chair, startled, and began looking around wildly for the source of his scare.

His blue, blue eyes met the perpetually closed ones of Feliciano Vargas, personification of North Italy. His auburn hair was as messy as always, his curl still hanging from the side of his head and he still wore his big, goofy grin.

"I'm sorry!" He promptly yelled, backing off while waving his hands in front of him at the speed of light "I didn't mean to scare you!"

And, like it or not, France just couldn't stay mad at his little brother. Then again, very few resisted the juvenile charms of Italy Veneziano.

"You did not scare me" He reassured, winking "No one can scare Big Brother France!"

"Ve~! Really? Not even Mr. Russia?" The younger nation asked, his voice loud with excitement. France promptly covered his big mouth with his hand and shushed the smaller nation while he looked around nervously.

"Shhhh! Don't say that too loud" He berated "He might actually hear you" He let go of Italy and wiped his hand on his pants' leg.

"Oh, ok" Italy's voice dropped to a whisper "What were you doing when I called your name?"

"I was merely thinking, Italy. Never believe in England when he tells you that I can't think"

"I never believed him in the first place" The Italian assured the French Republic excitedly "Britain is so scary!" He trembled slightly, looking over his shoulder to where Germany was being poked repeatedly for the heck of it by Russia. The Arian was the only nation who didn't seem to be particularly scared of Russia. Well, Ludwig and...

"What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing special" France laughed his French laugh "I was thinking that my little Italy finally found a boyfriend" He chuckled to himself when Feliciano turned bright red.

"I do not have a boyfriend!" He complained loudly, to which Francis merely chuckled.

"Then what do you call Germany?"

"Ve~ Ludwig is my friend" His face lit up with joy as he looked back to the Germanic nation once more. France hummed in sarcastic agreement.

"I'm sure he is"

"What else were you thinking about?" France lightly wondered if he should tell Italy about his musings of Portugal. It felt like he was burdening a child with an adult's worries. It was so easy to forget that Italy was hundreds upon hundreds of years old, just like him. He was far too naïve to be treated like an adult.

"I was just thinking about Afonso" He silently cursed his mouth for talking without his permission. Feliciano got a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Oh, you mean Mr. Portugal?" He nodded to himself "I almost didn't recognize him! He's so different! Last time he visited me was so long ago..." He stared off into the distance – or just the core of the fight – as France watched him, bemused. Then, his face lit up again "And he has that cool new scar too! I wonder how he got it!"

France's eyes darkened considerably and he shot a long, dirty look at Spain. He knew the origin of that scar – he knew  _who_  had slashed the man's face in half.

"Ve~ Big Brother France? Why are you looking at Antonio like that?" Francis shook his head to clear his thoughts of such dark matters.

"It's nothing, Italy. And yes, Afonso is a really nice person, even if he acts a bit tough sometimes"

"Are you a close friend of Mr. Portugal?" The Italian asked in a light tone. France merely smiled.

"I was once very close to him. Now, I can't be sure. It would seem as if he even resents the black sheep of Europe" At Italy's now confused gaze, he shook his head and clarified "I mean Britain"

"Oh! What has Britain done to Afonso?"

"Let's just say Arthur did some pretty bad things to Portugal and leave it at that" Now Italy might be hyperactive and naïve, and bear the mentality of a ten-year-old, but he knew when a certain subject was still as sore one.

With a small frown, he stepped away from France and waved his goodbye.

"Well, I gotta go, Big Brother France! I gotta go see Germany!" And he sprinted away, digging into the mess of limbs that was the center of the fight.

France watched him leave with a small sigh before re-centering his attentions back on the door.  _Hurry up!_  He commanded silently  _I need to talk to you before I go mad._

* * *

Just as always, he didn't participate in the fight that seemed to be a common ending for the world meetings nowadays. He sat back, staring at the shouting nations with a childish yet dangerous smile gracing his lips.

Such petty arguments... how they could turn into something dangerously close to war. His smile broadened at the thought of war. Oh, how he despised the thing. It made him giggle.

War didn't scare him – of course not. He was Ivan Braginsky, the Russian Federation, after all. Not much scared him, with the exception of Belarus, of course. He was one of the world's superpowers, a once powerful empire, so he had no reason to be scared at all.

But, along with all of that – with his people, his buildings, his monuments, his history, and his landmass – he felt something else entirely different. Beneath all those layers of ice that covered not only his land but his heart, he felt... almost human.

After all, loneliness  _was_  a human emotion, and he felt lonely – lonelier than when his subordinates had left him, along with his sisters. He didn't know what was happening as of late. His eyes were always downcast, no longer shadowed by insanity, even when he strived to bring the upwards. His dark aura seemed a little bit less effective and often escaped his control, seeping out when he least expected it to. His pipe seemed heavier than ever.

He cursed inwardly. He often lost control of his temper, allowing the beast to come out and scare the living shit out of the other nations. It wasn't right.

His eyes narrowed as they passed through a journal someone had left at the table. The titles read 'Russia is discontent with Putin" in big, fat words, printed in neat black ink. It wasn't him that was discontent with his prime-minister – his people were. Everyday people went out and organized big manifestations against the current government.

Perhaps that was what was making him weaker than usual. His heart clenched as a sudden thought trespassed his mind. It wouldn't be long before they started coming for him, threatening with rebellion and yelling that it was all his fault.

It had always been his fault. He worked daily, throughout the centuries, to make Russia the respected, feared, nation it was today, yet it all his fault. He didn't want to be guilty of crimes he hadn't committed.

Russia blinked a few times to disperse some unwanted tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. This wasn't the time for crying. Crying was what he had done when the Mongols had invaded Russia, breaking his recently formed and still sore borders, and imprisoning him. Crying was what he had done when his own children had turned against him, rebelling and yelling.

He had promised himself he wouldn't cry anymore.

He swiftly avoided a shoe thrown at him. The nation who had thrown it looked fearful for a second, before disappearing back into the tangle of limbs that was the very core of the monumental fight that had started not so long ago.

He smiled again. All nations were fearful again. Well, all except Germany, who seemed to be only annoyed by him – he had even had the gall to try and invade him. His childish laugh, soft yet harsh, filled his own hears for a second. Foolish man. No one invaded Mother Russia. One time had been enough, and the Mongols had learnt their lesson when he bathed in their blood.

But yes, generally, everyone feared him – aside from Germany, Belarus and Ukraine.

Except Portugal – the stray thought popped into his head so suddenly that Ivan could do nothing but blink in surprise and let the smile slide from his face. Violet eyes narrowed again.

In truth, he had never seen the Iberian nation in person, and he didn't remember any time when any of the others had mentioned the small country. Such a small country... and yet he had stopped his pipe without even looking at it. The feat was not without effort, of course, he had seen the slight tremble of Portugal's shoulder. Had he pressed on, he could have dislocated the bone.

But at that time he had regained conscience of himself, as human and nation, and had been able to stop the attack.

What had followed had been chaos, with Britain suddenly attacking him. It wasn't his fault – he had wanted to say – he had just lost control. It wouldn't happen again. But all that passed through his lips was a mumbled apology. It hadn't soothed Arthur's anger, though, and he really thought that the ex-pirate was going to hit him.

But then Portugal had stepped in, defending him calmly and Arthur had actually stopped his rage attack.

And now both nations had gone outside. His gaze diverged again to the door. He felt the smallest flicker of hope light his spirit.

Portugal hadn't feared him, right? So that meant he could try and befriend him... right? The small spark evolved, growing and spreading rapidly like wildfire, but he forced himself to regain control of his emotions. Too much hope for a friend had been what had crushed him before, even before he had learned the cruel truth that was the impossibility of him making friends.

No one wanted to befriend him and that was final. But he would ask – he vowed to himself – and he wouldn't even allow himself to be too disappointed when Afonso refused his offer.

He noticed Latvia slowly rising from his chair and set a heavy hand on top of his head, feeling the little boy shake.

"Where are you going, Latvia?" He asked with that childish smile of his. Latvia stared at him wide-eyed.

"Nowhere, Mr. Russia!" He answered quickly, shaking his head erratically "I was going to stay right here!"

Inside, Russia frowned and then sighed. They always behaved like this. He hadn't forbidden the young nation of going anywhere; he was just asking his destination. But he said nothing as Latvia promptly sat back down.

His eyes trailed to the door.  _Come out, I have a question for you_.

* * *

America let out a feral yell as he charged into the fight once again, jumping over a fallen chair. He sent his fist forward blindly, hoping to hit something. Nothing. His fist collided with the table and he retracted his hand with a yelp, before he ducked, barely escaping a punch from Denmark, who was almost as enthusiastic about this fight as himself.

What they were fighting about, he had no idea. It had something to do with the environment... he thought. Either that or Switzerland was pissed about something. Yeah, one of those.

He pivoted and kicked at Denmark, who blocked the attack. America laughed and used his hero strength, sending the Nordic flying into a nearby wall.

He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. No one could block his attacks. They were pretty much unstoppable when he used all of his strength. They were pretty much like Russia's. Except someone had blocked Russia's attack.

He avoided a well-aimed kick to his crotch and backed off, raising his fists to defend himself from any possible attack. His mind wandered, leaving his body to fend for himself.

What an intriguing little country. He knew him from afar, having used one of his air bases during World War II, but had never had any real interaction with the man. He had heard England mention him once or twice, so the Iberian nation must be really old.

But how did someone that old – he wrinkled up his nose – block an attack from one of the world's greatest superpowers? Well, next to him, of course, because he was the hero and, as so, he was always number one.

He didn't underestimate Russia's power, though, and he knew that blow was meant to kill. He avoided one punch and threw another right back. He felt the satisfying sound of bones protesting beneath the skin had just hit.

He evaluated Portugal critically. He wasn't too tall, nor was he overly muscular. His current situation suggested a bad leadership, disastrous even, and yet he stood tall and proud, with a slight tint of amusement to his eyes.

He punched someone and yelled "God bless America!", only to break down laughing afterwards. He sobered up quick enough, though, when he was punched in the face by someone.

And he had never seen Britain lose his temper like that. He had never even seen him look as remorseful as he did when he had looked Portugal in the eyes. Yes, the nation was a mystery. A mystery he intended on revealing.

He would speak to Japan about it later.

* * *

"So, I guess this year's Olympics are going to be held in London, right? How awesome is that?"

They had been like this for a while. Portugal was just talking randomly, addressing every problem and subject in the world but the one at hand, while Arthur had his eyes glued to the Iberian nation and his mouth shut.

Portugal spared him a thoughtful look. Apparently, he must have showed some sort of emotion in his face because the Portuguese man changed subjects again, talking rapidly. About the rain, the sun, the wind, the ocean, France, the latest movies he had seen... Everything and anything except for one thing. The thing Arthur really wanted to know.

"Do you hate me?" He finally blurted out, interrupting Portugal in the middle of his monologue.

The copper-haired nation heaved a sigh and ran a tanned hand through his hair, setting his fringe aside so it would get into his eyes. He spared another glance at Arthur and sighed again. Minutes ticked by as he remained silent, sighing occasionally.

Finally, the Republic of Portugal spoke.

"I do not hate you, Arthur" He said slowly, finally meeting England's green eyes "I have never hated you"

"Oh, thank you..." The United Kingdom said, a true look of relief lightening his face.

"But" Portugal cut off with a determined look in his eyes, setting them ablaze with the accusation of a thousand betrayals "Do not make the mistake of thinking that I trust you completely. You have to understand... I have been betrayed one too many times"

The ex-pirate sucked in a raspy breath and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"I understand" He said, after a while "I wouldn't trust you either, had it been me"  _Oh, but it was me_ , he thought bitterly, allowing the sour thoughts to seep into his mind,  _it's because of your actions that he doesn't trust you._

Portugal nodded with a calm smile gracing his lips.

"I'm glad we have an understanding." He turned to leave, but Arthur raised his voice again.

"But... I don't get it. Why don't you hate me? I've betrayed your trust so many times... I forced you into a war when I knew you weren't ready and I stopped you from adopting those kids. Not only that but I forced an Ultimatum on you on top of that! I took your last kid away, your prized kid, the one who stayed with you until the very end! I took Macau from you! You have every reason to hate me, Afonso" His voice raised into a shout "Then why is it that you offer me... this sort of forgiveness?"

During his little rant, all Portugal had done was stare at him calmly, occasionally scratching his scar to calm the itch.

"Because it was with you that I shared not one, but many cups of tea. Not only tea but also stronger drinks. I shared tears with you, as I shared many laughs. I shared almost my entire life with you and you did the same for me. All of the best moments in my life..." He shook his head fervently as he gazed at Arthur with a crooked smile "They were all lived with _you_!"

He straightened up, throwing his shoulders back and shaking his head to straighten his ponytail.

"And also because we are still bound together" He offered Britain a sad smile "The Treaty of Windsor is still active. Remember? The oldest treaty of the entire world and it's still active. Our treaty is almost three times older than America" His smile turned nostalgic "And because of this. This is still active and, for me, it will be active until the day that Portugal is no more"

He reached into the small bag he had brought with him and shuffled with his hands inside for a while until he took out a small folder. He untied the folder, took its contents out and handed them out to Britain.

He offered Arthur another smile.

"The original is safe back at my place. Think about it" And then he left, re-entering the conference room and leaving Arthur alone while the sun set.

His eyes scanned over the document before widening comically. There, in a perfect copy of the original, was the Treaty he and Portugal had signed, with their names and their blood.

His heart clenched and his sight became blurry with tears.

No, all the profit he had made with his betrayals wasn't worth it. All the money in the world wouldn't suffice. This was his best friend he had betrayed, and yet, the other man had kept their original treaty.

Arthur looked at the setting sun as one single crystal tear slid down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Act I; Chapter 4 - Economy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countries help each other. Even if it means seating through a boring meeting about economy, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, people~
> 
> OST: Grenade (by Boyce Avenue)
> 
> Vocabulary:
> 
> Japão (PT) - Japan
> 
> Irmãozinho (PT) – Little brother
> 
> Hermano (SP) – Brother
> 
> Hai (JP) - Yes

_ The Fall of Nations _

_ Act I – The Players _

_ Chapter IV – Economy _

* * *

The fight had dissolved and the meeting had resumed has soon as Portugal had stepped back into the Conference Room, with a sad, somewhat nostalgic smile gracing his lips. The nations had sent him guarded looks – impassive gazes that betrayed nothing – but Afonso could tell that they didn't completely trust him.

He paid them no attention as he regained his seat by Russia. He did feel, however, France's eyes on him. He moved his gaze to watch the blonde nation of love. Blue eyes return his stare. Francis was watching him impassively – no, there was the slightest twinkle of curiosity dancing in his eyes.

He shuffled through the papers he had laid out in front of him, bringing forth a new sheet of paper for him to take notes of the rest of the meeting.

"Hey" He heard someone whisper next to him. The whisper went unnoticed by the other nations, as they were all nursing broken noses or other bruises and laughing about the stupidity of it all.

Portugal, however, heard it, and turned to look at Russia.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me for my rude behavior. I don't know what came over me to attack you" Russia requested politely, sorting out some papers he had in front of him, without quite meeting Afonso's eyes.

"It's okay. No hard feelings" The Iberian nation promised, offering him a true friendly smile, to which the Siberian giant responded with a childish smile of his own.

"And now to address the situation with Portugal's economy" The declaration from Spain brought them both back to the meeting and Portugal watched his little brother laugh amiably.

"If you'd like to present your situation" He left the phrase hanging in the air, sitting back down and allowing his older brother to speak.

Portugal rose from his seat, shuffling his papers again, before clearing his throat. He could feel the curious stare of every nation boring into his head as he steadied his gaze on everyone.

"What I come here to propose to you is that you lend me yet another rescue patch of money" He raised his hands to stop any protests that might emerge from the audience "I know that I might be asking for too much, but believe me when I say that this will be the last rescue patch I need"

"Your government said the same thing when you filed for the last rescue patch" Germany pointed out, folding his arms with a disapproving look on his eyes "And the one before"

Some nations mumbled in agreement. The copper-haired nation merely offered them his trademark crooked smile.

"I am not my government" He declared calmly "It may be weird for me to say so, but the oldest of you, who are nearly as old or even older than me, will understand. After a while, a nation just... detaches himself from his government, I guess" France made a small noise of agreement "So you must learn to trust my judgment, not my government's judgment"

"How can you say something like that?" Ludwig countered "Your government is the one who must decide your fate as a nation"

Afonso's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"You have been especially supportive of me during this hard time of need, Germany, but I dare say you do not understand. Had you lived as long as I, with rulers such as mine, and you would have learned that ruler and nation are two separate things" He explained with a soft laugh "But forgive the digressions of an old man. I meant to say that I could always force my country into Emergency State"

The silence in the room was deadly by now.

"Declare Emergency State?" Switzerland inquired harshly "That would scarcely benefit anyone"

"Have you ever entered Emergency State in your life as a nation, Switzerland?" Portugal inquired, not unkindly.

"Not in my entire life, Portugal. I never needed to do so"

"Well, do you know what it involves?"

"Every nation knows what Emergency State involves" China cut in sharply, speaking for the very first time to Portugal "It is required that we know it"

"So you know what it involves" Portugal nodded thoughtfully "We put the entire country into our hands and dismiss all and any government we have. It is us, nations, who run the country entirely, including the Armed Forces. We shut down our borders and basically completely isolate the country in itself. It has helped me before"

"But it wouldn't bring you any benefit now" Germany insisted.

"Perhaps not" Portugal admitted "But it strengthens my point that nation and government are two separate entities. Back to the original point, you have my word that this is the last rescue patch I'll need"

Germany considered the words for a moment, with a concentrated frown gracing his features.

"Those in favor?" He asked, addressing the whole room "Please speak in order, no running over each other. We will start at the far end of the table. Greece, if you'd please start"

Greece grunted and then yawned loudly, stretching nonchalantly, before scratching his chest. He blinked once and then petted his cat, who purred.

"I cannot... help you with... that" He paused to pet his kitty again "My economy..." The lazy man shook his head "It's bad enough as it is... I need help for my own"

Hungary spoke next, smoothing the velvet of her dress with her pale, fair hands.

"My country, just as yours, lives a time of need. We can help, but not as greatly as other richer countries would" She sounded almost mournful.  _Such a delicate soul_ , Portugal smiled, _but perhaps Prussia would disagree._

"My country is living a period of wealth, but I do not wish for my country's wealth to be wasted on the lazy and the free-riders. If you wish to have my support, you should make some concessions that assure me that the money will be returned to me" Austria declared solemnly. His glasses hid the light in his eyes well enough, but Portugal couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of greed to the man's behavior.

France had the decency to allow Canada to speak, seeing as the man was the next in line. The almost-invisible Canadian, soft-spoken as he was, gave his opinion.

"I can help you. Canada accepts your proposal" He declared, though no one seemed to be paying much attention to him.

"Who are you?" The polar bear he always carried around asked, looking up at his owner.

"I'm Canada!"

France rose then, offering a courteous smile to the attendants of the World Meeting.

"France seconds Canada's offer of help" He declared simply, winking at Portugal, who merely raised an eyebrow as an answer.

Prussia, who was sitting by France, made to get up before a harsh look from his little brother pinned him in place. He mumbled under his breath about how 'un-awesome' that was.

Nations gazed at the empty place by Prussia, where England had previously been seated. His papers were scattered and his cup of tea was still on top of them, though the tea had long since run cold. Some nations spared quick glances at the door, others at Portugal, but none said a thing on the matter.

Switzerland spoke next, though he saw no point in rising from his seat – instead, he merely folded his arms.

"Switzerland will help you as we've been doing this whole time, but seconds Austria's position. We need to get our money back"

"Naturally" Afonso agreed, with a curt nod.

America looked grim as he rose to speak, adjusting Texas to make sure that they did not fall from the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, dudes, but I can't help you with that. I'm facing recession, hard as it is, so I can't lend anymore money like I did after the two world wars" He turned to stare at Portugal in the eye "No hard feelings right?"

"I would hardly keep hard feelings against any of you" Was the simple reply from the Iberian nation.

The next one to speak was Japan, who rose graciously from his chair and bowed slightly.

"My country is in need, Portugal-san" He explained politely "And all money is precious. Even so, I shall aid you in your quest for economical balance, though the money must be returned to me in due time"

"You are a western nation" China said next "And western nations cannot be fully trusted. I can barely feed my children. China refuses your proposal" And he sat back down, though not without giving an apologetic look to Portugal first.

Romano, sitting next to China, said nothing, instead shooting a bored look at his brother.

"He's the representative of Italy as a country" He declared "It is him who must decide" He had then proceeded to smack Spain for trying to hug him during his little speech.

"I want to help you, hermano, I really do, but I must impose conditions like the others have done. My country is in no better shape than yours" The Spaniard announced sheepishly, laughing softly as he scratched the back of his head.

"It's okay" The copper-haired Discoverer assured his younger brother "Again, no hard feelings"

Germany was clear in his position as he rose to speak.

"I've already spoken my mind. Honest pay for honest work. Bring me something useful to my country, to the world, and I will lend you my money"

"Ve~ I second Big Brother France's position" Italy declared excitedly "My country is faring well, so we can help you, Mr. Portugal!"

Next up was Finland. The smiling, gentle country was not unkind when he spoke.

"Forgive me, but Finland cannot help you in your cause. We vote against it"

"Sweden seconds Finland's position" Was the only thing Berwald said, adjusting his glasses grimly.

Portugal's jaw was now clenched hard as iron, as he made an effort to smile that crooked smile of his. Things were not looking good. He had fooled them – well, not him, but his government – into thinking that the rescue patch before this one, and other one before, had been the last, and now he that he was requesting the true final rescue patch, they did not believe him.

He couldn't blame them. Fooling the other nations had not been a clever move on his behalf but he had been one of the very few against it.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself and unclenched his jaw, forcing his lips upward. Yes, he must appear civilized and calm, even if calm was the last thing he felt.

"With all due respect" He hadn't even noticed Iceland rising from his seat "Iceland seconds Sweden and Finland's position" And now he almost had more people against him than in favor.

His eyes hardened considerably as he thought of how his economy would fall if he did not get the rescue patch. He had been true in his words when he had said that this rescue patch was the last one. Such refusal would cost him the work of years.

"Well, I don't know about you lot, but I can help Portugal" Denmark announced, rising "Denmark approves of Portugal's proposal"

Seven against, nine in favor. Yes, things were beginning to look up for him, but the voting was far from the end.

"Norway seconds Denmark's position, although we must insist on having some guarantees granted to us in return" The Norwegian man stated simply, nodding to Portugal. The Portuguese man nodded in reply.

They skipped him, of course, and moved on to Russia. The giant nation smiled a child's smile as he addressed the room.

"Russia supports Portugal's cause" He turned to Portugal "I trust you will put the money to good use, da?"

"Of course"

Russia's support had been a pleasant surprise, Portugal noted dully. He had considered that the frozen giant would be against him in his cause.

Latvia didn't dare to stand up, and spoke quietly from his seat, but his position was clear.

"Latvia refuses Portugal's proposal"

The next two were no better to Portugal's cause. Both Lithuania and Poland had refused, basing their decisions on their countries welfare.

"The voting is not over yet" Germany declared once all countries had spoken "The United Kingdom is missing and we need his vote. Having an incomplete voting would just unbalance things"

Right then, before any nation could protest that they needed the meeting to go on, the door burst open and a fairly familiar man, red of hair and green of eyes, with a devious smirk playing on his lips strutted into the room.

"Hello, lads" He greeted good-naturedly "I take it you all know who I am. I am, of course, Scotland. Unfortunately, England had to head back to his hotel to take care of some urgent business and entrusted me to represent the United Kingdom in the pitiful freak show that you call a World Meeting"

He flopped down on England's couch and smiled.

"And, by the way, England states that he is under the obligation of helping Portugal by the Treaty of Windsor and so he agrees with whatever Portugal proposes" He informed them lazily, eyeing the Portuguese man wearily.

 _Business, yeah, right_ , the Discoverer snorted mentally  _He must've gone home to think about it, like I told him to_.

Some nations were mumbling under their breath, commenting to one another. Portugal caught a mumbled conversation between Norway and Denmark.

"It's still active?" Denmark asked Norway in a bored tone "They are such old men, both of them"

"Silence, Denmark. I think it's great that their friendship has lasted so long. I hear it was signed somewhere in the fourteenth century... I can't recall the date correctly..." The Norwegian nation put on a thoughtful expression.

"1379" Portugal interrupted "It was signed in May 9th, of 1379"

"Yes, of course" Norway averted his gaze, feeling a light blush spreading over his neck for being caught talking about someone by that same person.

"Alright" Germany conceded, silencing all small talk "So the voting counts as ten nations against the rescue patch and twelve in favor of it. We shall take a small break – thirty minutes, no more – and begin negotiations after we've freshened up"

He got up to leave, dragging a clingy Italy with him. Prussia quickly bolted from his seat to join them, boasting about god-knows-what. The other nations rose as well and took their leave, stretching and laughing, talking to one another with practiced ease.

Portugal too got up to leave, after biding a quick 'see you later' to Russia, who was still sorting out his papers. He walked through the hallways, offering amiable smiles to everyone he encountered.

He knew not everyone but it was in his blood – in his children's blood – to be hospitable to everyone. It was just a trait of his to be friendly. Portugal didn't quite watch where he was going until he found himself at the entrance of the cafeteria. No matter. He was hungry anyways.

The Iberian nation skimmed through the various kinds of food for sale until he decided upon a pretzel and a cup of coffee. He paid -  _God, the prices were all so high lately_  – and eyed the room with an upset look. Nowhere to sit.

"Portugal-san. You can sit with me, if you'd like" He heard someone call.

He turned to look at Japan, sitting at a nearby table. The island nation nodded in greeting and gestured to the empty seat in front of him. Afonso shrugged and sat down in front of his old friend, setting his things in front of him.

"Hey there Japan" He greeted with a broad, true smile "How are you today?"

"I am fine, Portugal-san. What about you?" The Japanese man asked politely.

"You know I'm always fine!" The other man replied cheerfully, his eyes alight with joy "I haven't seen you for so long! You're quite different!"

"Really? How so?"

"Your hair's a bit longer" He even dared to extend a hand and grab a lock of Japan's hair, ignoring the other's stuttering "And you look happier"

"I have always been happy, Portugal-san" Japan protested meekly while Portugal scowled.

"But you look happier now. And you can call me 'kun' like you used to, Japão" The Japanese island seemed rather nostalgic at the man's sudden change to his mother tongue.

"Fine, then, Portugal-kun" He conceded, sipping his tea "I don't hear your language often, old friend"

"China hears it more, I believe" The man's voice was bitter with resentment "From Macau, I mean"

"Hai, I believe he does. But even so... do you still resent England-san and China-nii-san for taking Macau away?" Japan was truly curious. Never had he heard that tone of bitterness in the other man's voice.

Portugal heaved a sigh.

"I do not resent neither of them. England has his reasons, though it served to intensify my distrust of him, and Macau is part of China's territory"

"But you miss him"

"Japão..." Portugal looked doubtful that he should continue, like the talk brought him the phantom of the pain he had felt "All of my colonies were everything to me. I raised some of them to be adults, some were taken from me without my consent before either of us were ready and I loved all of them equally. But Macau stayed with me until the very end. Just like Brazil" He shook his head "I miss them all"

"Forgive me for intruding in an obviously still painful subject, Portugal-kun" The island nation requested quietly, eyeing his tea wearily.

"You don't have to ask for forgiveness. You did nothing wrong. You know better than anyone an old man's pain and his regret for the past" Portugal's eyes were not unkind as he laughed "Besides, I'm the fool for allowing such thoughts into my head. I'm starting to sound like England when he speaks of America"

"Hai, England-san is still very regretful of what happened with America-kun" The man nodded thoughtfully, spinning the tea in the cup as Portugal devoured his pretzel like a hungry wolf "I guessed we just turned into old men full of regrets"

"I guess" Portugal agreed, cleaning some sugar from the corner of his mouth "But not completely. I might have resented it when Brazil declared herself independent, for example, but I've come to realize that she needed it. She couldn't be my little girl forever, even though I really wanted that to happen"

"She was very fond of you, Portugal-kun" Japan observed. Portugal's lips curved upward in a sad smile.

"Yeah, she was such a daddy's little girl" He laughed softly "Each and every one of my colonies had a special trait. Over the years I realized how well they would work together"

"Indeed they would"

"But enough about me and my regrets. What about you? Why are you here alone? I heard you had befriended Germany and Italy when you formed the axis. I thought the three of you were best friends" He inquired, sipping his coffee without caring for his burnt tongue when the liquid slipped into his mouth.

"We are friends. Best friends, even, as you would call it" Japan confirmed "Italy wanted pasta and so Germany went with him to make sure he didn't hurt himself"

"He's still as air-headed as he was back in the time, uh?" Portugal snorted.

"I haven't known Italy-kun for very long, but I do believe he's always been like this" And both men shared a laugh. Portugal spared a glance at his watch.

"We should head back. The break's almost over and if I stay here, I might be tempted to eat more"

"By the way, Portugal-kun, if you don't mind me intruding, what happened to England-san?"

Portugal spared Japan a brief look.

"He was just suffering from excessive anxiety, nothing to worry about" And he left it at that. He was glad that Japan wasn't the kind to ask too many questions.

* * *

"So, here is my proposal. You raise your GDP by 10% and you'll have my support. Otherwise, we must take the money back by force" After a couple of hours of negotiations, Switzerland had finally set on this number "And this will also apply to the other nations"

Portugal nodded dutifully.

"I will do so, though I am aiming for a little more than just those 10%" His crooked smile was in place, cocky as ever and he even permitted himself a short laugh.

"And for me, the percentage is set on 15%. I must ask for more than the others for I have been the one to finance all of your other rescue patches" Germany reminded him.

"Yes, of course"

"If you'll excuse me" Norway spoke up "Could you please brief us on your government?"

"There's not much to be said. Greedy as always, more interested in outwitting the opposition than making the country grow, but quite friendly" He stated "They are making progress, though, so I won't be too harsh on them"

"I dare say that you've always liked your monarchs better than your republicans" France suggested, laughing his French laugh "At least those waged wars to quench your thirst for blood"

"You make me seem like a madman in search of violence" Portugal complained, narrowing his eyes "I'm just a little adventurous, that's all"

"We call it 'adventurous' when you set sail to discover the world" Spain objected "Not when you fight those wars of yours"

"Oh, quiet, you" Portugal scolded the Hispanic nation "If I remember, most of my wars were fought against you because your own country just wouldn't suffice and you thought you had the right to take mine as well, irmãozinho"

Spain blushed until his ears were bright red but didn't lose his wits.

"To that, we call national pride" He declared.

"To that, we call nationalism" Portugal countered with a cocky smirk "Which you may recall as the cause of the fall of some nations"

"Whatever, hermano" Spain muttered under his breath and sulked as some other nations, Portugal included, laughed.

"Well, I believed the meeting had already taken too much of your time" Spain declared after the laughter died down "We shall end this meeting now and we'll meet back tomorrow by noon. It's already late. Good night"

The nations bid their goodnights and their goodbyes and stood to leave. Portugal neared Spain.

"So, let's take a look at those re-decorations you made, shall we?" He proposed cheerfully, following the Spaniard out of the room "I must say I'm surprised you're letting me stay at your house and..."

Spain groaned as Portugal chatted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed~
> 
> PS: This takes time somewhere in the future, so economic situations might have changed a little. Also, forgive me if some economy-related terms or situations are incorrect, since I understand little of it.


	5. Act I; Chapter 5 - The Second Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World wonders about Britain. France is worried about a friend. Russia makes a friend. And Spain learns something. Meh, normal day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy~ Also, I must tell you, only one chapter left on this Arc before we move into the plot!
> 
> OST: Dragon Rider (by Two Steps From Hell)

_ The Fall of Nations _

_ Act I – The Players _

_ Chapter V – The Second Meeting _

* * *

The new day found the nations gathered again under the same roof, seated in the same seats as before, and making small talk with each other. Portugal found himself seated between Norway and Russia, with whom he was talking.

"So, what happened to Britain?" The giant nation asked with that childish smile of his in place.

Portugal gave a sideways glance at the place where England had previously been sitting. The place was now occupied by his brother, Scotland, who was chatting animatedly with Prussia – something about a contest of awesome. The nation gave the impression of having sensed someone spying on him, because he turned and looked Portugal straight in the eye with an amused gaze.

The Portuguese nation didn't avert his gaze, instead hardening it. Scotland smirked knowingly and turned back to Prussia's meaningless talk.

"He was... suffering from excessive anxiety" He answered, somewhat absentmindedly. Russia hummed in response.

"He should relax more" He said pleasantly. If he hadn't believed Portugal's obvious excuse, he said nothing on the matter "Britain really works himself almost dead"

"Indeed" Portugal gave a curt nod to accompany his answer, turning slightly to offer the frozen nation a friendly smile.

"Excuse me" Said Spain, gaining the attention of all the nations, and effectively ending any sideways conversation that still remained "Let's begin the second day of the World Meeting. All nations are present, with Scotland serving as a substitute for England, who is still absent" He gave a short nod to Scotland, who waved cheerfully in return "This being said, let's begin to address the problems that remain unsolved from the previous day of meeting"

He sat back down, immediately immersed in a talk with Germany about some economic aspects of his country. The other nations took this as their cue to start the usual mess. Afonso merely smiled and leant back, watching the event with a spark of interest.

* * *

France couldn't be more bored.

Seated between Canada and Prussia, he had little more to entertain himself with than the occasional talk with Canada and listening to the endless boasting of one of his best friends. He didn't even have England to bother, much to his disappointment.

Hesitantly, he threw a look at Scotland. England's brother was lean, tall, and the bearer of short flaming hair. His eyes had an amused glint to them as he listened to Prussia re-telling all of his great doings, occasionally giving his input in one thing or another.

France groaned as he leaned back in his chair and eyed the ceiling wearily. If he focused hard enough, he could see multiple ants running through the bleach white ceiling... yes, he was that bored.

"Hum... France?" He bolted at the sudden voice that spoke up beside him and sat straight again, startled. When he looked, it was only Canada, looking at him timidly.

Francis cursed silently under his breath. Why was it that they always spoke when he was least prepared?

"Yes, mon cher?" He answered right back, with a coy smile gracing his lips, true to his nation's fame.

"I was wondering if you knew where England was"

"Speak up, mon petit Mattieu, I can't hear you" He advised "I raised you to speak up for yourself, so do it"

Canada threw him the ghost of an offended look, almost as if to say  _You're the one who ignores me!_  But he said nothing of the sort.

"I was wondering" He repeated, more loudly this time "If you knew where England was"

"Oh, why do you care about the black sheep of Europe? He's a good-for-nothing and can't cook" The French nation joked, wrapping one arm around Canada's shoulders, but the other nation shrugged feebly and France let go, long since used to abide the invisible nation's wishes because he knew Canada didn't have the strength to force others to obey.

"Enough, France. I'm really worried" He protested, trying to sound firm, though his soft voice did little to nothing to get the effect he wanted.

One look at the nation's soft violet eyes –  _Everything about him is soft..._  – told him that he meant business and his smile retreated. His face was now serious as he folded his arms and spied the door.

"England will be fine" He promised "As was said before, he was just taking care of some business, nothing more. You don't need to worry"

"But what if that's not the reason he went back to the hotel?" Canada pressed on "I tried to visit him yesterday, but he wouldn't see me. After he recognized me, he told me to leave, that he didn't want anyone there"

"He's fine. Nothing's happened" France insisted in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice.

"He left after he talked with Portugal. What if Portugal did something to him?"

France eyed the younger nation for a long time, with a frown marring his features. Finally, he sighed.

"Listen, I'm a good friend of Portugal's" He explained "If you knew Portugal for as long as I've known him, you would know he'd never do anything to England. Even if England was holding him at the tip of a sword or at gunpoint, he wouldn't move a muscle to hurt him. And believe me, that's happened before"

Canada sucked in a deep, harsh breath.

"They're friends?"

"Best friends. Once brothers, even though I'm pretty sure that they don't see each other as family anymore" He laughed his French laugh "At least not in that sense"

Canada reddened considerably as he punched France lightly in the shoulder.

"You're horrible. Always forging relationships between people"

"You would too, if you had seen them sometimes. Especially when England is drunk" Francis winked slyly as Canada reddened even more, if it was possible.

"So you're sure that he's okay?"

"As long as he didn't ingest any of his food, he's okay. If he has, I can't promise anything"

The both of them turned suddenly when they heard a crash, only to see a chair being thrown at Prussia, who threw his right back at the offender.

"Alright!" Spain shouted, standing up "Let's end this meeting here. We'll meet back here tomorrow for more negotiations. Have a nice day and I hope you enjoy Madrid!" He waved cheerfully as nations mumbled, struggling to get up.

France stood too, but his eyes wandered to Portugal, who was chatting amiably with Russia. Portugal was heading for the exit – he had to ask about England, he had to...

"What really happened to England, Portugal?" Russia spoke up, silencing any and every conversation in the room. All nations stilled in place, turning to stare at Portugal through narrowed eyes "No bullshit about anxiety. Tell us."

Portugal stilled as well, back turned to Russia as he pondered the question. France was paralyzed too, awaiting Portugal's answer.

Some nations mumbled under their breaths, gazing at the Iberian nation suspiciously.

Portugal turned, matching Russia's smile with one of his own, though is eyes glinted devilishly, as if he enjoyed a joke known only to him.

"I had a little talk with him. Rest assured, I didn't harm him in any way. He's my best friend; I would never do anything that would bring him harm" A certain bitterness crept into Afonso's voice "I gave him something to think about"

"Can anyone confirm your story?" Asked Denmark, folding his arms as he stepped forward.

"As a matter of fact, I can" This time, it was Scotland who stepped forward "I saw my brother when he returned and I can tell you that he wasn't hurt in any way. Just thoughtful"

The nations seemed to take this as explanation enough and suspicion faded from their faces as they resumed their previous activity of heading for the exit. The answer, however, didn't seem to satisfy Scotland.

"Pray tell, what did you give England to think about? He's never been as quiet as he was when he met with me at the hotel, the bloody wanker" His tone of voice was conversational but there was a guarded emotion behind that voice, one that France could not decipher.

Portugal seemed to decipher it well enough, though, for he answered simply "The Treaty of Windsor" and smiled lazily.

The other nations seemed to accept that answer well enough and began to clear out the room. Seeing there his chance, France darted forward and grabbed Portugal's arm, holding him in place.

"Stay" He requested, eyeing Russia wearily "I need a word with you"

Afonso nodded solemnly and with a light shove freed himself from Francis' hold.

"Alright" But he wasn't quite off the hook yet. As France stepped back, Russia neared and smiled down at the copper-haired nation.

"I need to talk to you too after everyone's gone" What he had to say would be most embarrassing if said in the presence of other nations.

"Fine, I'll stay behind" Portugal conceded gruffly "I get the message"

When the nations had cleared the room, only France, Russia, Portugal and Spain – who couldn't leave without his brother – remained.

"Alright, I'm listening" The Discoverer announced "You can say what you wanted to say and no one will hear us"

"Russia will" France objected, but didn't dare step close to the giant nation in fear that he might take offence to that.

"Come on! Don't be such a baby, France" Portugal's voice turned into a hiss "You used to be brave"

"Keyword being 'used'" France noted, but he could feel his resolve dissolving "Okay, here's the deal: Are you ok?"

Dark green eyes became confused.

"Of course I am. Why do you ask? If it is because of my economy, I'm recovering from that, but I'm ok"

"It's not that. You look down. People who have known you for as long as I have will notice. You always stand tall and proud. Now you walk with your shoulders slightly hunched" He pointed to Portugal's shoulders for a better impact "Not much, but just enough so that we will notice"

With a frown, Portugal threw his shoulders back and straightened his back.

"Maybe my advanced age is catching up with me"

"I highly doubt it"

"Look, I'm fine" He smiled "The only thing that's bothering me is the fact that my scar is itching a bit more than usual, nothing more"

"Your scar is itching" Spain repeated numbly, joining the conversation "You never mentioned it. Does it itch often?"

"No, only when bad thing are about to happen"

"Bad things?" Spain repeated once again, eyeing his brother with a trace of worry marking his features.

"Well, not necessarily bad things" Portugal admitted "But things that will change my history. It itched for a great deal of time before the king was murdered and the republic was established. It stopped afterwards."

"So something bad is about to happen?" The blonde nation of love asked, doubt clouding his voice.

"Come on, Francey-pants!" The Iberian nation complained, narrowing his eyes "It's just an itch. Nothing's going to happen"

"So you're sure you're ok..."

"Yes. Yes I am"

"That was all I wanted to know" And he stepped back, watching Portugal with the concentration of a hawk. Russia stepped forward.

"I have a proposal for you" He declared "You are free to refuse it."

"Go on..."

"Would you consider..." The words died in his throat, now closed and dry and Russia chastised himself. Now was not the time for nervousness. Hundreds before him had declined his offer and hundreds after him would do so "Would you consider being my friend?"

Russia could feel them – the horrified stares of the two other nations in the room – and it did little to improve his self-esteem. All of a sudden, he regretted having asked. Portugal however, gave little thought to it.

"Yeah, sure, why not?" He shrugged, smiling as he stepped forward and extended one hand "Friends?"

Russia's surprise lasted only a second, as he had to regain composure. Carefully composing his childish smile, Russia took Portugal's hand in his own and gave a light shake.

"Friends." He declared, ignoring the jaws dropping around them.

The silence lasted only one minute longer, before France broke it when he walked towards the exit.

"Well, I'll be going now. Farewell" But, just before he exited the room, he whirled around and faced Portugal "You'll have to join me in a glass of wine, one of these days"

"Sure" Portugal promised "We'll have to set a date. I'll call you"

"Yeah, you do that" And he was gone.

"We have to go as well" Spain reminded his older brother "I have to water the tomatoes before they rot and I have to take you with me"

"Ok, fine, I'm coming" Both brothers walked to the exit.

As they passed Russia, Portugal couldn't help but notice his downcast violet gaze.

"How about we hang out one of these days?" He suddenly asked, addressing Russia, who looked up, surprised "Yeah, that's what friends do, right?"

"Right" Russia seemed dumbfounded "We could have a drink"

"Yes, I'll pay. See you, Russia" And he resumed his walking to the door.

"It's Ivan" Portugal turned back and smiled.

"Ivan, then" And then he was gone, having crossed the door with his brother and Russia was left in the empty room once again.

* * *

"You've always liked tomatoes" Portugal observed as Spain watered his precious fruits with a grin.

"How can you not? They're the perfect fruits" Spain laughed, a pure mirth-filled laugh. Portugal laughed too, infected by his brother's humor.

"Even when you were really little, recently formed, you would always ask for a tomato with your meal, no matter what it was" The oldest Iberian nation looked at his brother as flashes of a younger –  _Happier, he was..._  – Spain coursed through his mind at unimaginable speed.

"Yeah, I remember. And you would always give some to me, even when my Queen had prohibited it"

"You like them" Afonso said, defensively "Who was I to deny you tomatoes?"

"You always did take good care of me. Thank you"

"You need not thank me. I did it because I loved you"

"Loved."

"And still do. Don't be stupid. All the wars against you were nothing but mere scuffles" He chastised his younger brother, eyeing the green-eyed man.

"Even a scuffle leaves scars." And he pointed to the scar above Portugal's eye, the one that crossed it vertically. Subconsciously, the older man touched it.

"A scar is a medal of honor. I told you already that I do not resent you." His eyes closed and he sighed, breathing deeply "I still love you, you big fool"

"And always will?" And suddenly, all Portugal could see was a kid Spain at the border of his bed with big, round, tear-filled eyes as he looked up to his older brother.

"Always" He answered, as truthfully as he had back then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed~ Chapter 6 is being written right now! Stay tuned~


	6. Act I; Chapter 6 - Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tattoo, and something terrible, happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to the final installment of the first Act of The Fall of Nations. Yes, the plot is now beginning to move and so we'll move on to more important stuff ;)
> 
> Enjoy. Longer A/N at the end.
> 
> OST: Calamity (Two Steps From Hell)

_The Fall of Nations_

_Act I – The Players_

_Chapter VI – Resolve_

* * *

Portugal's eyes shot open as his breath quickened unnoticeably, silent as a cat, as he always was every morning. He surveyed his surroundings with a groan as he saw that the whole bed was a mess, with sheets tangled everywhere – including his own body – and his pillow on the floor. It would seem that he had trashed around that night, like he had many others. It was a bad habit of his.

With another groan, he moved into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes slowly before he swung his legs out of the bed and stood, stretching with a huge yawn.

"Good morning, hermano!" An unbelievably cheery voice called from the door. Portugal turned to glare at his brother. He was not a morning person – that much was clear.

"Vai-te foder" Was all the Portuguese man murmured, folding his arms neatly over his chest as he let his hazelnut gaze fall on his brother. The Spaniard looked incredibly happy, for some reason that Portugal couldn't phantom, but his light diminished a little when he heard his brother's harsh answer.

"Someone's not a morning person" Was the muttered reply, as Spain shuffled sullenly in his spot by the door.

"I was a morning person when you weren't even a whisper, irmão. Now, mornings don't exactly excite me" The Iberian's words were mild and calm, but there was an edge to them that startled Portugal and made his voice quiet down by the end of the phrase.

Perhaps he was more tired than he was aware of.

"Whatever, hermano. I'm going to make breakfast" And, with that, the youngest of the two retreated, humming a soft melody to himself – something that resembled the Spanish National Anthem with a few additional touches.

"Somehow, I just know that he's going to make something with tomatoes" The Portuguese man mumbled to himself, running one hand through his fairly tamed hair as he eyed the retreating back of the Spaniard wearily.

They ate tomato toasts and drank tomato juice for breakfast. Portugal cursed Spain to Hell and back. The usual.

* * *

All the nations were surprised when the door opened again. They were settled, sitting calmly in their places, silent for once, or at least talking quietly. Portugal, once again, found himself seated between Russia and Norway. All nations were present, Scotland included, and so the opening of the door was quite a bit of a surprise to all nations in the room.

In stepped England, his stride ghostly, defeated as he more or less dragged himself to where Scotland was seated, after a mumbled 'good morning'. The nation with the head of flames said nothing – he stood up, bid his goodbyes to the nations in the room, and strode out. The switch had been so sudden, so deliciously unexpected, that it had rendered the room to a state of neutral silence.

England seemed to take no notice of this.

A first whisper broke the silence, and then another, and soon enough, the conversation was back – the jokes, the comments, the  _companionship_. England paid them no more attention that he would a bug in his way, choosing to organize his papers, laying them out in front of him strategically.

Portugal kept his eyes on the island nation, trying to read the green emotions that shone in those orbs, but England seemed to keep his eyes guarded on purpose. But, after a minute or so of careful examination of the papers before him, England lifted his eyes to meet Portugal's. With a spark of a knowing look, the island nation got up like many of the other nations who were chatting among themselves and walked.

He walked confidently, with a posture he had been lacking since the beginning of the meetings. But Portugal couldn't help but wonder if he was scared. There was something... something in those green eyes of his that made Portugal wonder if more than he knew had changed in the man since he had last seen him.

Norway had, at that point, gotten up to go talk to someone else, and so England trotted to the Nordic's seat and sank into it. The ashy blonde on the other side of Portugal heaved a sigh and excused himself, getting up to go talk to Yao.

"Good morning" Was the first thing the blonde said to Portugal. The copper haired man shot him a crooked smile.

"Morning, Arthur. Feeling well?" His eyes scanned the other's face. Arthur returned the smile with a warm smile of his own.

"Yes. Better than well, actually. And you?"

"I'm great. I hope you took care of the business you had to take care of."

"Yes, I did" England's voice dropped an octave and he leaned towards Portugal "Look, I have something I'd like to discuss with you"

Afonso blinked, eyeing the Englishman carefully before he drew the slightest of smiles and said "Go ahead."

"I'm sorry."

"Excuse me?" Arthur cleared his throat wearily and tried again, trying to keep his voice even and controlled.

"I said I was sorry. I had... I had forgotten how we... used to be. In my urge to forget the pain of my past I ended up erasing the good things as well. I forgot... about us. How we were before all this bullshit." He stopped to regain his breath, and Portugal allowed the small interruption in the speech with grace. "I just wish... things would go back to how they were... before I forgot you."

The blonde seemed ready to engage in another tirade of apologies and reminiscing, but the copper haired Portuguese man interrupted him with a laugh.

"Arthur... What the hell, man? Nothing has changed. I am still me, and you're still you. We're best friends for fucking ever, Artie, both politically  _and_  personally." Portugal smiled crookedly at the island nation. "Right?"

To say Arthur looked relieved would be an understatement. Understanding flooded the Brit's eyes and his whole expression shifted, became softer and lighter, as if a weight had been removed from the blonde's shoulders. The Brit smiled.

"Right. Of course" And they both smiled. Portugal's smile was crooked and the Briton's looked like something horribly forced, but it was so  _familiar_  that it came close to becoming painful.

Somehow – perhaps subconsciously – both men shifted closer to one another. Perhaps it was the need to feel the other, to make sure that wasn't a dream of some sort, that they wouldn't wake up at any moment, that drew both souls closer, but they sure did have a terrible timing. Spain stood and, with a cheery smile and some quick words in both Spanish and English, began the meeting.

The others took that as the cue to start their usual chatter and banter, which would later escalate into worldwide chaos, and the world meeting began. With an apologetic smile, Arthur excused himself and returned to his assigned seat, between Switzerland and Prussia. Norway returned to his previous seat beside Portugal. Russia returned, with his plastic smile and smooth talk and seated his large self on the other side of Portugal, humming pleasantly to himself.

During the following half hour, the nations talked about various themes, but Afonso couldn't bring himself to pay attention to any of them. His eyes were trained on Arthur, watching the Brit with close precision. One or two times, he found the Briton staring back at him, only to watch the blonde's cheeks darken with blood and the gaze to be averted quickly.

Afonso felt his own cheeks darken the slightest bit at the shared, intimate looks. The feeling was so unusual, and at the same time so  _familiar_  that he did not know what to make of it.

His thoughts were interrupted by America's loud, boisterous voice as the superpower rose from his seat, his coke in hand, to glare warningly at Russia. Portugal blinked. Apparently, the ashy blonde man had said something that the American had found offensive. Of course, being his loud, obnoxious self, he had to jump into it right away.

"Dude, why don't you just go back to making sunflowers wilt?" He shot at the Russian, hoisting a mighty glare into his eyes. The Russian merely smiled that plastic smile and did not rise from his seat. His eyes were veiled, but from the aura rising around him, it was obvious that he was angry.

"Silly American..." The other chuckled, straightening his back. "I cannot make sunflowers wilt. That takes days of negligence." He stated, his violet gaze piercing through the American with enough intensity to make the other male burst into flames.

America's face contorted in rage as his grip on his beverage tightened.

"Stop playing dumb, you stupid commie!"

"I am not communist anymore, Alfred." The Russian informed him calmly, keeping the edge out of his voice. Portugal chuckled under his breath. The Russian was all smooth talk and deceptive politeness. He wished he was that good at hiding his emotions.

The American's face contorted even more. Suddenly, Portugal felt like he was watching a movie. He was pulled out of his skin, he was no longer in control of his body. He saw everything happen in slow motion. America, being his over reactive self, lunged across the table, aiming at the Russian, with the drink  _still in his hands_.

Portugal knew it would end badly. And it did. He tried to throw himself out of harm's way, out of Alfred's radium of disaster, but his body was still half asleep and his mind could not send the orders to his limbs fast enough. He could only screw his eyes shut as the Coca Cola in Alfred's hand tipped dangerously and the drink spilled itself, drenching Afonso in the sticky, gasified liquid.

There was silence for a moment, save for Alfred's constant curses and Russia's calm and somewhat amused declaration that Alfred had, yet again, made a fool of himself. Portugal merely sighed, standing up and letting the liquid drip to the ground.

"Thank you, Alfred." Was all he said "But could you please keep your differences between you and Russia just between the two of you?" Stupid question, he knew. The Cold War had been a proof that Alfred could  _not_  do that. But he still asked it.

Alfred sent him an apologetic look, shuffling to a standing position, as did Russia.

"Oops... Sorry..." He scratched the back of his head, in a characteristic nervous tick of his.

"I apologize for America's rude and unpleasant behavior." Russia said, eyeing Portugal with some sort of friendly pity in his violet eyes. The Iberian country shook his head.

"It's not a problem. It's just that now I'm a little... wet." France drew a lewd smile and made to comment on what Afonso had just said, but a cold glare from England shut him up.

Spain cleared his throat to capture his brother's attention.

"Hermano, I have some spare clothes of mine in a room in this building. They should fit you well enough, if you want to try them." He spoke smoothly, softly, so unlike his normal boisterous tone.

"I would rather die than be caught wearing your clothes, irmão." Afonso deadpanned, staring blankly at his Iberian brother.

Spain scowled and England shot Afonso an irritated glare that clearly said  _Stop being an idiot and dress some dry clothes._  Even France and Russia raised inquisitive eyebrows at him and Portugal was left with no option but to roll his eyes and sigh.

"Fetch them for me, will you?"

"Aye aye, captain!" Spain exclaimed enthusiastically, with a bright smile lighting up his whole face. For a moment, Portugal felt almost sorrowful for having been mean to his brother. Almost. The feeling vanished quickly, though, and he was left with the same old bitterness and resent for his brother's trickery and wars against him.

As the youngest Iberian nation practically fled the room, Portugal sighed. England shot Alfred an irritated look.

"Good job, Alfred." He commented dryly, quite literally fuming.

America shot him an offended glare as he shrank back, setting his beverage down on the table neatly. He adjusted his glasses sullenly.

"It wasn't on purpose!" He protested, looking slightly ashamed of his actions, like a child being scolded in public.

"Yeah, England, chill out. It wasn't on purpose!" The loud, unasked-for comment earned Denmark a cuff over the head by Norway. England turned to him, glaring daggers at the Nordic, with his eyebrows drawn together.

"Shut up, Denmark." He growled. Oh, if looks could kill.

"Let's all just calm down, shall we?" The huge frozen nation that sat next to Portugal suggested in a pleasant tone. The other nations visibly deflated at that, staring at Russia cautiously. Prussia opened his mouth, but thought better of it and closed it again, choosing to stare openly at the scene.

Portugal sighed.

"Yes, let's do just that." He agreed, extending his hands in front of him and watching the soda drip from his fingertips and onto the table. He probably shouldn't do that.

The room was quiet for a short while. Portugal felt blood rush to his cheeks and ears when he found himself to be – once again – the center of attentions. Some nations were staring not at him, but at Alfred, with a disapproving glare. Afonso sighed. He didn't want conflict. He was a peaceful guy. He had certainly not meant for America to get in trouble because of him.

The minutes seemed to slow as he waited for Spain to come back with new clothes for him, and during that time, his mind raced as he tried to come up with something to say – something to ease the tension.

Luckily, Spain was quick. The Iberian youngster returned within a few minutes, carrying a new set of clothes and even Afonso had to admit that he had been too harsh with his brother. The new clothes were simple – jeans and a black shirt – and he had to confess that he quite liked them. He had, perhaps foolishly, expected his brother to come up with some ridiculous bullfighter costume.

"Here!" The Spaniard exclaimed, perhaps a bit too excited and eager to help, thrusting the clothes in Portugal's general direction.

Raising a single, scarred eyebrow, Portugal took the clothes, allowing himself a small, thankful smile.

"The jeans will not be necessary. My shirt was the only thing that got wet." He chucked the jeans back, chuckling lowly as he then turned around and began unbuttoning his drenched shirt.

He gave the other nations no time to protest as he quickly tossed his shirt aside and reached for the new one. A sudden murmur stopped him and he froze in his tracks. Then, realizing what the other nations were commenting on, he chuckled. Prussia was the first one to express his opinion on the matter.

"Damn, that's one sick tattoo." He stated, whistling loudly before laughing obnoxiously. Germany – lips so tight that they almost disappeared – cuffed him over the head and mouthed 'don't be rude'.

Denmark whistled loudly, forming a choir with Prussia, before turning to Norway to whisper something that had the quieter nation rolling his eyes. Poland's eyes got big and he smiled widely to Lithuania.

"Look, Liet! Wouldn't it be, like, so cool if you got one like that?" The Lithuanian nation actually looked scared at that.

"Oh my... When did you get that?" That was definitely England's shocked voice speaking. France was gaping like a fish. Italy merely giggled and suggested that Germany could get one of those.

Portugal's chuckle turned into a small, contained laugh.

"Don't look so surprised, England. You're talking to the man who carved the coordinates of Windsor on his arm." He laughed, looking over his shoulder to wink at England, who turned a light shade of pink at that.

"What does it say?" Hungary murmured, observing the Portuguese man's tattooed back with interest.

"Which one? The top one or the bottom one?" Portugal inquired.

"Both."

"Well, the top one says 'Esta é a ditosa pátria, minha amada'." Portugal smiled wistfully at Spain, who was leaning casually against the wall. "It could be translated into 'This is my beloved, my blessed homeland'. Those are the words on my war flag." Spain tensed momentarily, looking away for a few seconds, and Portugal's smile fell as his features became harder, sterner.

"And the bottom one?"

Portugal's voice didn't rise above the volume of a whisper.

"Deus, pátria e família." The words were simple, concise, and brought a lot of memories that Portugal would rather leave buried. A familiar, stern face flashed before his eyes, looking down on him with a disapproval that Portugal had not seen in any of the man's predecessors. He shook his head, and the image of Salazar disappeared as fast as it had come. "God, homeland and family."

"Sounds like a motto." Germany noted, and Portugal couldn't imagine the younger nation without a raised eyebrow. He sighed very quietly to himself before he looked over the shoulder to smile wistfully at the younger nation, finally pulling the black shirt Spain had brought him over his shoulder and buttoning it up quickly.

"It is." He turned to face the other nations. "It was the motto of the New State. Estado Novo." Spain growled something that Portugal could not hear, but it didn't matter anyway.

"Oh... You mean your dictatorship?" Prussia actually had the decency to appear bashful after asking that.

No country went through life unblemished. All nations that were or had once been great were scarred, transformed,  _and changed._  Friends and family became enemies. Enemies became allies. All countries had been invaded, had been twisted, had been corrupted in some kind. All countries had fought wars and lost them. Even a country as peaceful – when compared with other countries in Europe – as Portugal had seen his fair share of destruction and corruption.

Other countries had had tyrannies. All countries had had someone who thought they knew best leading them at some point in time. Some nations present in that room seemed actually surprised at the question by the Prussian, and Portugal felt and old, ghostly and  _dangerously familiar_  wrath rise within him.

A large share of people didn't know him as an independent country. Some thought of him as a province of Spain, some didn't know of his existence. That made him mad. It was easily explainable – what he was feeling. Despite constant protests against government and the country in general, and the fact that everyone called each other 'thieves', the Portuguese were an extremely proud and patriotic people, so...

It was really no wonder Afonso felt revolted at the unmistaken surprise in the other nations' looks.

"Yes... My dictatorship." He actually felt like patting himself on the back. His tone of voice had remained civil and even the coldness in his stare could easily be attributed to the bad memories that talking about dictators always brought to nations.

* * *

" _Cut your hair." The request sounded like an order, and Afonso knew it was one. He knew he should just shut up and obey, like a good little country, but his tongue burned in his mouth and his rebellious nature got the better of him._

" _Why?"_

_Salazar's cold stare turned to him, no longer kind and understanding._

" _Because I said so. You will cut your hair. É uma ordem." Portugal recoiled at the harshness in the man's voice. "I expect you to keep it short and well trimmed. Enough of that messy bush that you seem to parade on your head. It's no wonder that your economy is this bad, if you can't even tame your hair."_

_Those words hit closer to home than they should have. The far older, but far younger-looking Portuguese man winced and stood up straighter, feeling his pride bleed from the deep wound._

" _I... I will cut it... sir." He said slowly, as if every word fatigued him. Salazar didn't offer him a smile; didn't offer him a 'thank you'. He merely looked on._

" _I know you will, Portugal. Just do as I command and I promise you I will set things straight again."_

_Looking back, Portugal couldn't see a time when things in his country_ _**were** _ _straight. But it didn't matter. It hadn't mattered then and it didn't matter now. It was_ _**that** _ _the new guy couldn't see. Yes, he was a poor country and spent money like there was no tomorrow. Yes, he preferred watching football or playing a good game of cards over working. But it was all okay._

_Because he had_ _**fun** _ _. He and his bosses had always had a great relationship... well, until the republic, that is, but it didn't matter. What he meant was that he and his kings had always been... friends. They were childhood friends, and friends that stuck with each other even after the harshest of blows. He taught his kings how to ride a horse, every single one of them. He taught them how to sail. He took care of them when the current Queen couldn't._

_They were his bosses, but they were also his friends. It had never mattered whether they were rich or poor, because they were always together. To Afonso, that was all that had ever mattered._

_This was, of course, not to be mistaken with lack of interest for his country's welfare. He cared about his economy and his trade and his people in general. He cared about his colonies – perhaps more than he'd ever admit – and he cared about his allies and he cared about his empire. He cared about everything a political leader should care about, and he was fine with that, as long as he had his friends with him._

_But now, with this new boss completely disregarding him as just another pawn, Portugal couldn't bring himself to be fine with it. This man... He was not truly Portuguese. A true Portuguese man would prefer the company of a friend to the heavy burden of politics. He would jump headfirst to help a fallen ally. This man steered him clear from the course of the war that threatened to engulf Europe, that was right, but he was also disregarding everything Portugal stood for._

" _Yes, sir. I look forward to it, sir."_

_Portugal had never felt more ashamed of himself._

* * *

The nations stood silent for a while, perhaps allowing Portugal his little trip to the past. Afonso, however, wasn't keen on dwelling on the past for too long, and smiled amiably.

"But that was long ago. All that matters is that I'm not dripping wet anymore." France laughed at that, winking at the Iberian nation with a lewd smiled. Portugal rolled his eyes. The Frenchman really could see innuendos everywhere.

"Ah, yes, of course. That really is fortunate." The Englishman that had just spoken directed another ill-hidden scowl at Alfred, who just stuck his tongue out childishly.

To tell the truth, Portugal had completely forgotten about his tattoo. He hadn't even thought of it. He had gotten his back tattooed a couple of years back. It was a full back tattoo, which went from the base of his neck to the very bottom of his back. It represented one of the most emblematic scenes in his history: the monster Adamastor, featured in his national poet's poem, blowing the winds against a Portuguese caravel, which, despite everything, stood strong.

On the small of his back, there were two engravings. The top one belonged to the picture, claiming the Portuguese bravery. The bottom one was more recent. It had been a requirement when the New State had been settled in his country.

"Now, Arthur, don't sweat it." He smiled a bit condescendingly at America, as if he and Arthur were sharing some kind of humor that a young nation like him couldn't understand. "It's not like it was on purpose."

"Yeah, Artie! It wasn't on purpose! Besides, the guy's got a shirt now, so it's cool, right?" Afonso almost laughed at the youngster's energy.

"Yes, America. It's cool." He gave Arthur's arm a dissimulated pinch when he saw the other nation about to argue. His reward was an offended yelp.

Whatever else Portugal was going to say, was lost when his eyes widened. His voice died in his throat, when the burning feeling that something was incredibly, unbelievably, undeniably  _wrong_  back home, spread through his chest like wildfire and made his stomach turn on itself. He could feel...  _something_  march on his chest, stomping on it, making his blood boil and run through his veins like a stampede.

After that, naturally, came the pain. A burning, unimaginable pain that torched his insides from the top of his head, and then down, devouring his brain mercilessly until he thought it would explode. The pain filled him completely, from head to toe, burning his veins and boiling his blood and compressing his every muscle until he was trembling, in a pudgy mass on the ground.

He had no idea when he had fallen down. He was vaguely aware of people, seemingly very far away, screaming, reaching out for him, trying to set him upright, trying to call a doctor, or simply trying to make sense of everything. They couldn't, obviously. But he could. He knew exactly what was going on, that not-so-subtle pain in his heart, that burning of his body, from the inside out.

He was being invaded. His heart, his  _Lisbon_  was being invaded. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He didn't know when he had fallen down, but he remembered when he screamed. It bubbled, from his chest, to his throat, making it clench and his vocal cords tighten and then... it was out. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until his muscles felt like jelly and his throat throbbed and ached painfully.

He could feel someone – England – reaching out for him, not touching him because he knew it would bring him pain. England was screaming, for someone to make it stop, for someone to explain what was going on. He wanted to reach out, to tell him not to worry, to tell him to run, to tell him to rally up his army and to march over Lisbon. He was not even sure which of those things he wanted to tell him.

He wanted to tell him that he was ok, that he was not ok, that he would be fine, that he would die. He gritted his teeth, tried to contain it, tried to get up, only to get shoved to the ground by rough, calloused and  _enormous_  hands. It had to be Russia.

He bit his tongue, and, as the blood soaked his mouth, dripped into his throat and out of it, forming a line at the corner of his lips, he felt dizzy. He wasn't sure if it was from the blood loss, but he was willing to bet that... yes, of course. He was going to pass out.

He tried to reach out, to hold England's hand, to  _warn_  him, but all he managed was a feeble movement and then, darkness.

* * *

Germany watched as Russia, France and England teamed up to carry the passed out nation to another, unoccupied and peaceful room, away from the uproar and the chaos of the meeting room. He really had no idea of what was going on. One second it had all been fine and dandy, and the next, Afonso was on the ground, shaking and screaming, clutching at himself as if he was being taken apart.

He wondered if the man was sick, or worse, going mad from decade after decade of economic crisis and laughable leaders.

His attention was diverted, though, by the muffled sounds of... sobbing? He turned around, his gaze softening when he saw Feliciano with eyes wide as saucers and a trembling pale hand delicately covering his probably gaping mouth.

Moving slowly, Germany forced one arm to extend itself and hesitantly, tentatively touched the other man's shoulder. The reaction was immediate. Feliciano was in front of him in two long strides and was throwing his arms around the bigger man's waist, burying his face on Germany's chest.

Feliciano's response to his touch, however, was not what shocked him. What shocked him was his own response when his arms moved seemingly with a mind of their own, to gather Feliciano in a comforting embrace.

"It's okay, Feliciano. It was just some sort of indigestion." He tried to soothe him, even though his words sounded fake even to his own ears.

"But what if it's some kind of epidemic! What if..." His eyes got even wider as he looked up into Germany's own blue eyes. "What if I get sick too?"

"That's nonsense, Feliciano, this is not an epidemic and you're not getting sick." The tone with which he said it was firm, with no place for arguing, but Germany would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn't worrying about Feliciano too. After all, he  _did_  care deeply for the young Italian.

The Italian man nodded.

"If you say so." And Germany smiled, to assure him that everything was going to be fine.

* * *

The light filtered briefly through his eyelids and he winced, flexing his hand slightly. To be completely truthful, he had attempted to lift it to cover his eyes, but his body did not seem to be responding to his orders accordingly.

He tried to rotate his shoulder, but as soon as his body trembled in its pathetic attempt of recreating the image he had in mind, he felt a hand land heavily on his shoulder, pressing him further into the mattress. Mattress. He was in a bed.

The opposing hand only made him move further, as he struggled feebly to sit up. His efforts, however, were valiantly fought off by one simple hand. And who did that hand belong to, anyway?

He cracked one eye open, groaning hoarsely as the light hit him straight in the eye, blinding him momentarily. When his sight focused again, he almost wished he had never opened his eyes.

He was immediately met with bright emerald eyes, clearly torn between a scolding frown and a burning concern. Aforementioned eyes were framed by pale skin and bushy brows. Portugal let out a hoarse groan and rasped out the nation's name.

" _E-England..._ " He coughed with enough force to send a few splatter of blood flying onto his hand, as he quickly covered his mouth.

England produced a sole, concerned whine that Portugal was half sure he hadn't meant to make.

"Portugal, it's fine. You're okay, now. You're going to be ok." He spoke with the certainty of someone who cannot, for the life of them, imagine that it could possibly happen.

Portugal wasn't so sure. His hand balled into a fist and he tried to sit up again. Strength was returning to his body, albeit slowly, and this time he was able to push England's concerned hand away.

"I'm f-fine. You said it... yourself." He coughed up a few more splatters of blood, but England could do no more than look worried, for he had been the one to say Portugal was fine.

Afonso was  _not_  fine. Afonso was anything but fine. He closed his eyes momentarily, and his capital flashed before his eyes, perhaps the result of one of his citizens' desperate pleas for help.

* * *

_They had come from the sea, powerful and mighty, an entire squadron of them – black, shiny and tremendously powerful. Each plane carried around twenty people, and without any warning, without any concern for international flight laws, landed on the Airport of Lisbon, shoving the other planes out of the landing ground, getting at least one hundred people armed with menacing guns on Portuguese soil._

_The man was no soldier, was no hero. He was merely a forty-six years old shop assistant at the Airport of Lisbon, and he was terrified out of his wits. Careful as to not produce any sound, he hid behind the shop's counter, and waited. When he was sure the soldiers had passed him, he considered calling for help. He found that he could not move. The fear was too great; the survival instinct was too immense._

_The man was sure he would die that day._

_All of a sudden, he felt calm. It was an interior peace, something that comes from within someone and has nothing to do with a steady heartbeat or deep breaths. A sort of presence touched his mind, demanded to get access, caressed it and entered it, forcing all thoughts of death out end leaving the man calm._

_What it was, the man knew not. It was ancient, powerful... magical. Slowly, the man shook himself out of his stupor and stood, careful not to let anyone see him. He looked around, feeling lost as to what he should do. He saw no survivors, no bloody but alive people who had opposed the invaders._

_Something behind him made his hairs rise. He whipped around, searching for the offender, raising his fists at the height of his face, prepared to fend off any assaulters. There was no-one. But... he was so_ _**sure** _ _he had felt someone... There it was again! Behind him!_

_He spun around again, this time swinging his arm to hit... air. There was no-one behind him. Confusion crawled inside of him, making the man quake in something akin to fear. He was not superstitious, he did not believe in ghosts, or the sort. But he_ _**was** _ _a religious man, and his religious beliefs got the best of him, momentarily. He fought off the urge to get on his knees and pray._

_But that feeling... It was not religious fervor. It was something else, something deeper. Something that called from before his birth, and from beyond his tomb. A call to arms, a call to defend the nation he had been born into, and had loved with his very core._

_Patriotism._

_The name occurred to him like a sudden light in the dark. It was like a huge, dark weight had been lifted from his shoulders – like a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could see again._

_Patriotism. He was a citizen of the Portuguese Republic. He was a respected man among his peers, a decent charmer of the ladies, a more than decent casual football player... He was many things, but if there was one that stood out, was the fact that he was, indeed, a citizen of the Portuguese Republic._

_And now, his country needed him._

_The presence behind him, it wasn't unnamed anymore. It was tangible and ethereal at the same time, and many other impossible things, but it wasn't unnamed. And he would be damned if that wasn't a name to shake the world._

" _Portugal." He whispered as he staggered forward; each step becoming stronger, each stride more secure._

" _Portugal." He spoke again, louder this time. His voice reverberated through the corridors of the airport, and created an ominous vibration that was shot back at him by the very foundations of Earth. It was not a call from God. It was more,_ _ **oh, so much more**_ _than that._

_Like a ghost bound to those halls, like a graceful dancer in a ball room, like a King newly crowned, he advanced. His eyes, clear and understanding, looked at the surrounding destruction; his heart beat to the rhythm of his anthem. He was above the Earth, floating over the hearts of mortal men._

_He was pure creation._

" _Portugal." He said, loud enough to be heard by a roaring crowd. And, through the great window in front of him, through which could be displayed the runways and a good deal of the city, he saw._

_He saw buildings aflame; he saw women, men and children run, hide, and die. He saw destruction as they had brought it. The armed men. No more than two hundred, a hundred and fifty at most. Clad in black as black as the smoke that filled the air, sporting striped and stars as red as the flames that licked at the heart of Portugal._

_He looked at the sky, and a single whisper, as zealous and laced with faith as a prayer, fell from his lips._

" _Help us."_

* * *

When Portugal blinked the blur away from his sight, England, France, Russia and Spain were by his bedside, ridden with worry and fear. He opened his mouth to tell them, to warn them about the men, to curse at the winds and pray to God.

However, before any of those sounds could be made, another came. Someone pounded on the door, and entered. It was a woman, short and brown-haired, clad in army green with the Portuguese flag on her chest. Her skin was flushed, and Portugal could hear her gasp for air as she regained her breath.

"Senhor General..." She began, in a language the others could but vaguely understand. "Senhor General, Lisboa... Lisboa foi atacada. Homens armados... Nos aeroportos, nos portos... As tropas conseguiram forçá-los para as fronteiras, mas não temos o poder para os manter afastados tanto tempo… Precisamos de si… Senhor."

Silence fell on the room, aside from his own heart drumming on his ears and the woman's receding gasps for breath. And then, he spoke.

"Lisbon is under siege."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Life has gotten in the way of writing. That and I had a fall out with my sanity and needed a mental break. I'm better, now.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to every reader, follower, reviewer and basically everyone who enjoys the story. I hope I didn't upset you with this (horrible) delay.
> 
> I have honestly lost count of the poll I was running, but PortUK won – of that, I am sure.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy, I hope you had a great new year, a wonderful Christmas and I hope school is going okay for the lot that's still in school. Like me.
> 
> I will try to update more frequently from now on, maybe set a schedule, but we'll have to see if my depression will allow that.
> 
> Also, this is the last installment of this first act! Action begins next chapter! Ta-da!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Hermano (ES) – Brother;
> 
> Vai-te foder (PT) – Screw you/ Fuck you;
> 
> É uma ordem (PT) – It's an order;
> 
> Senhor General… Senhor General, Lisboa... Lisboa foi atacada. Homens armados... Nos aeroportos, nos portos... As tropas conseguiram forçá-los para as fronteiras, mas não temos o poder para os manter afastados tanto tempo… Precisamos de si… Senhor. (PT) – General… General, Lisbon… Lisbon has been attacked. Armed men… At the airports, at the docks… Our troops managed to drive them to the borders, but we do not have the manpower to keep them away for so long… We need you… Sir.


	7. Act II; Chapter 1 - The Treaty of Windsor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, something is horribly wrong. And a decision is made.

_The Fall of Nations_

_Act II – The Siege of Lisbon_

_Chapter I – Treaty of Windsor_

* * *

Like knights gathered to hear the sentence of the King, so did the nations sit around the table and discuss the matter at hand.

No one said anything for a while. The silence was too heavy; the situation was too serious for the playful, constant banter that always went on between the nations. And then, Portugal spoke.

"Can someone please explain exactly who ordered the attack on my capital?" He spoke bitterly, still suffering the effects of the first attack. Things were calm, now, but the wound was still fresh –  _too_  fresh.

"None of us is the culprit, Afonso." Said Germany, after a brief silence. He looked as stern as ever, but there was a slight edge to his voice, some sort of fear. It was with silent shock that Portugal realized that Germany was just as lost as he was.

"Well,  _someone_  has to be. My people are fighting and dying. I've called to arms as many of my citizens as I could, but my troops are still insufficient!" His voice rose above normal conversational tone, to vibrate through the room, where it echoed until silence swallowed it again.

"Look, Portugal, we understand you are upset..."

"Upset?" There it was. The tone of voice he was trying so hard not to use. Cold, bitter wrath rose from within him and bubbled in his throat. " _Upset_? No, I'm upset when my team loses the match. I'm upset when I'm told I'm not participating in the Eurovision. I'm upset when I lose a bet to Antonio. This? This is not being upset. I am being attacked! I am being stomped on, and I'm stranded here, in Madrid, with all of you pleading not guilty, while my people fight and die!"

His voice rose to a roar – the voice of an entire country, nearly eleven million people, screaming in pain.

"Afonso, please." England pulled on his arm, urged him to sit down. He hadn't even noticed he had risen from his seat. Or that he had knocked the chair down, in his rage. He set it straight with a low grumble and sunk into it, lacing his fingers under his chin.

"I can't be calm right now, Inglaterra, I can't. Not when my people suffer and all you do is shrink back in your seats and wait for someone to fix what's happening." He took a shaking breath, trying to steady himself for what he was about to admit. "I'm not... strong enough. I can't do this on my own. These people... Whoever they are... They're big. They're powerful. I can't fight an entire army on my own."

"Then we help you! Simple as that!" England supplied, smiling a feeble, unsure smile.

All Afonso could do was shake his head and bury his face in his hands.

"Help me, yes, but at what cost? Which part of me will I have to surrender now to get help?"

"Do you really believe I would ask something of you for this?" It was England's turn to turn completely murderous. His emerald eyes glistened with something akin to betrayal as he leaned forward and gripped Portugal's arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Do you really think me so inhumane that I would turn on you in your time of need?"

"Funny how you say that like you haven't done that multiple times." The Iberian nation snarled.

"Enough!" Spain bellowed. "Enough, the both of you! This is no time to fight! We all did some bad things, now leave it be!" He gripped Portugal's shoulders, and shook him slightly, making the older Iberian look at him.

"Listen to me." Afonso roared an incomprehensible curse at his brother and twisted in his grip, trying to turn to England, who was being held down by France. " _Listen to me!_  Listen, you hasty son-of-a-bitch, you can't do this. Being attacked doesn't give you the right to be a dick."

"You can be God damn sure it gives me the right to be a dick. Those bombs they used? They are damn near nuclear. My city is being wiped out, and while my people would die before they surrendered to invasion, I do not share the same feeling, as I'm sure you understand." Portugal's scowl deepened as he carefully rested his forehead against his brother's. "I don't want them to die."

"No one wants them to die, you dick!" Spain roared, tightening his grip on his older brother. "But you need to pull your shit together. No need to attack England, or any of us. We only want to help."

"No one just 'wants to help'." Was the bitter reply. "It just doesn't happen. You're countries, you have to have your political views in mind; you have to gain some profit. That's the way the world works."

Spain fell silent for a minute, and stepped back, allowing Portugal the breathing space he needed. Then, with a cold, concerned smile, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

"You're angry. I get it. I do. But you need to start acting rationally. You're throwing a hissy fit. A tantrum. Just let us help you. We can solve this."

"Hell, we don't even know what  _this_  is. Who the Hell is attacking me?"

Without another word, Portugal slumped back in his chair, hating the way his disheveled hair fell ungraciously into his eyes and made them sting. He wanted to push it out of the way in cold, furious anger, but found he couldn't even lift a hand.

He was just tired... Nothing made sense. His every muscle ached, his skin was sweaty and shiny, his bones felt millions of years old, his eyes stung and burned and he wanted to close them and never open them again. For the first time in almost a decade, Portugal wanted to kill himself.

It wasn't unheard of, nations trying to kill themselves. But the body, although broken and beaten, was immortal, and the flesh would not allow the peace of mind one needed when one lived longer than everyone else he cared about.

"I want to sleep." He said, in a very small, very tiny voice, as if almost afraid he'd be heard. "I want to rest. I don't want to go in there and fight."

His brother heaved a heavy sigh and fell back into his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. He looked professional, down to business, which was by far the last thing Portugal felt like.

"I understand how you feel." The words sounded strained and once more Afonso was reminded that Spain was almost as old as him, and that his ancestor Castile had been even older. "But right now, your nation needs you. The  _people_  need you, Afonso, so pull yourself together and tell us what we need to know to help them."

 _I don't want to help them_. Afonso almost bit his own tongue at the stray thought. It wasn't true, not completely. He wanted each of his citizens to have a complete, long, happy life, he truly did, but was it really so wrong to want some rest and peace to himself? Yes, was probably the answer.

"If it means no one else dies, I will talk."

"I don't know why we're even going over this." America pulled his face into a deep sneer, straightening his back and shooting a meaningful look at Russia. He was obviously still upset over the beverage incident. "That kind of weaponry and power probably came from a big country. I am willing to bet it was Russia. Why else would he be here, smiling, if not to draw attention from himself?"

"You're a big country yourself, America." Russia retorted, smiling amiably, even though anyone focused enough could make out the clenched fists and the icy tone of his voice. The Russian nation was obviously not inclined towards peacefully accepting insults from the man-child nation. "With the same type of weaponry as myself. Closer to Portugal, too. And already with men in his islands. Don't you think the odds are more in my favor than in yours?"

America let out a small huff of indignation and folded his arms across his chest.

"Really? Last I remember, the personnel in Azores is for scientific research, not invasion."

"Knowing you, 'research' can be used as a very broad term."

"That's enough, you two." Switzerland interrupted sternly. His straw-colored hair made his eyes look even more frightening in their hard-contained fury. "We already established that none of us are to blame, and if that fact is proven otherwise, I assure you that the culprit will have Hell to pay for breaking the fourth Geneva Convention, but let's not fight among ourselves until we can pinpoint the exact cause for this attack."

That made the big young country soften and sink back into his chair, twirling the folder in front of himself aimlessly.

Portugal sighed at the commotion, and stood, stretching slightly to alleviate the ache on his muscles and the growing discomfort and pain on his chest region.

"Where the Hell do you think you're going?"

Portugal turned back to where England was standing, oblivious to the growing fight between Russia's gelid defiance and Switzerland's hot frustration, staring at him with those impossibly green eyes, as if asking him to reconsider, as if begging him to stay. He already knew where Portugal was going. So, Afonso didn't bother saying it. Instead, he just nodded to the blonde man and turned to leave.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

"I don't suppose you're planning on leaving?" Afonso cursed softly to himself at the sound of the rough German accent. He didn't bother turning around to spare a glance at Germany.

"What I plan on doing is none of your concern, Germany."

"Perhaps not." The German mused, his lips forming a thin line. "But you really shouldn't do anything stupid."

"Again, it is no concern of yours." Portugal's voice was gelid, and the older nation strained to maintain a proud stance, even though his sides were trembling with pain. Another attack, no doubt.

"Are you out of your mind?" It seemed like Germany's interruption had cost him some precious time. This time it was his brother's voice that rang above the others, and his furious face that was shoved in front of him.

Portugal couldn't help but notice how different those green eyes were from England's green.

"Sit back down, Afonso. You're being completely unreasonable."

"Am I?"

"You know you are. Lisbon is being shredded and you want to go there?"

"I have to!" Portugal didn't know when his voice had risen. It was almost a shout, now. "I need to go, I need to save them. They're dying, Antonio. They're my people and they're dying."

A heavy silence fell after that. Antonio didn't push the matter any further and took a step sideways, and Germany sighed and sidestepped as well. It looked like no one else was going to stop him, so Afonso finally allowed himself to relax and took another step towards the door.

"Wait." England's rough voice rang out, and Afonso readied another biting remark when England jogged lightly to his side. "I'm coming as well."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I am obligated by treaty to aid you whenever you require aid. It is…" And his voice cracked in  _that_  way Afonso had missed oh so dearly, and he knew his resolve had been shattered "It is, however, concern of… a different kind, to me. I do not seek merely the fulfillment of a contract sealed by matrimony, but also, and foremost, I seek to help you. As a friend. Not a nation, not an ally. A friend."

He did not know what to say to that. Of all the things he had expected England to say, that hadn't been one of them. So, he acquiesced.

"Very well, you may come, my friend."

"Wait." And Spain no longer looked combative, or even remotely mutinous. His dark green eyes were closed and he was pinching the bridge of his nose in obvious aggravation, but he spoke no more words of conflict. Instead, as Afonso readied himself to reply, he spoke. "At least let us try to get some sense into this. If you are so determined to run headfirst into a dangerous situation that could take you out of commission for months, if not even get you killed for quite some time, at least let us gather what little information there may be about the situation itself."

Afonso eyed his brother suspiciously.

"And then you'll let me go?"

"A few phone calls and you're free to go commit suicide." Antonio's voice was like acid, dripping down his ears, burning whatever sensible part of him lay hidden beneath the urge to aid his people. He didn't sit down again, and neither did England, though Germany sunk back into his previous seat with an irritated sigh.

"Alright. What I know of the situation is that Lisbon was suddenly attacked by an unknown force of no more than two hundred armed men, clothed in black and red. They arrived in an assumed civilian airship, killed everyone in the airport, minus one guy or another who were clever enough to hide in the best spots." His throat tightened and he fought to force the bile down. "They then proceeded to the city, slaughtering every civilian they could find, armed missiles in the airport and destroyed at least a dozen buildings. The worst, though…" Afonso sighed, and ran a hand through his face. "The worst" He proceeded "was that they did not make any demands, whatsoever. They didn't demand ransom, they didn't demand whatever little resources I have, they didn't want money, or that I attacked the European Union, or anything. There may be a few of them who are from other regions of my country, but they are few and cannot be trusted, obviously. They have enough fire power that they are holding their own against my army, even when it strikes out against them with whatever they could assemble in such short time."

Arthur's hand shot up to support Afonso, holding his elbow as his legs nearly gave out beneath him. He was tired, oh so tired.

"There are incoming missiles coming from unknown locations. I would assume they somehow managed to set up a base in Azores or Madeira, and are ordering the air strikes from there. Apart from that, I can provide no more information."

"My men are in Azores." America spoke softly, and suddenly, and was silent for so long afterwards that Portugal began to wonder whether or not he had truly spoken. Finally, he continued. "Scientists and the sort. We threatened to pull out not too long ago, but decided to stay. I haven't heard from those men, and I admit I'm not the most…" He struggled to find a word suitable enough "attentive of nations… Perhaps something happened to them. Perhaps their resources were taken and used against you."

"Yes, that is plausible." Arthur's voice rose, but it was painfully clear that the blonde had his doubts about the innocence of the men America had mentioned. Afonso could not blame him. He, himself, had the same doubts.

"How about someone call their damn Presidents and demand an answer?" Not surprisingly, the voice of reason came from Hungary, who was twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, her eyes like slits and her feet tapping impatiently. "We're all standing around, accusing each other, but no one really knows what's going on, and I think you are all wasting time. Call your Presidents, ministers of Defense, whatever they are, and solve the problem." Her gaze took on a concerned veil and she looked at Portugal. "Are you alright, dear? No more attacks?"

Afonso grunted and massaged his chest absent-mindedly.

"No, thank God. They… They haven't attacked. I think they're retreating, somewhat. Like a siege."

"Not so very wise a move." Came Russia's velvety soft voice, and Afonso let his eyes wander in the direction of the big nation. Of course it wasn't a wise move. They had nowhere to retreat to. Russia said as much. "They are forming a siege to a city fully equipped to deal with it, with help on the way from the outside. They risk getting sieged themselves." His soft laugh carried the sort of warning one might get from a dagger being unsheathed quietly.

"This doesn't make any sense." Afonso found himself muttering, shaking his head slightly to clear it from the familiar buzz of military movement. "They are incredibly powerful, have air support and the equipment to take out anything that stands in their way. Why stop now and retreat, putting themselves in a dangerous, if not compromised position?"

The silence that followed the question was heavy with uncertainty.

"Afonso, are you assembling your army to march against them?"

Portugal blinked himself out of his silent stupor to look at Prussia. It was the first time the Prussian had spoken in all the confusion.

"I… do not know. They are powerful. Probably more of them coming. I need to make sure the other major cities are protected. I would request your assistance in dealing with them."

Whatever Afonso was going to say next was lost, however, when he doubled over in obvious pain, clutching at his chest with a muffled grunt. Antonio lurched forward to support him as he forced his eyes shut and worked on normalizing his labored breath.

"Another bombing?" Antonio muttered in his hear, rubbing comforting circles on Afonso's back. His brother nodded with some difficulty, and managed to sit upright again.

"I… Excuse me, I must call my President."

"… Of course."

It was a tense five minutes, as Afonso tried again and again to reach the man in charge of running his country. Conversation broke out in hushed tones. Cellphones were taken out of pockets and calls were made. Norway sighed and stood, choosing to pace around rather than sit and watch as a nation was relentlessly attacked by an unnamed opponent.

Greece was unusually alert, staring at Japan with an acutely attentive look, for once ignoring the cat that pawed at him, trying to get his attention. In return, Japan stared at Greece, wondering what the big, slow nation was thinking. He always was the hard-to-figure-out friend.

Finally, the connection was successfully made, and with a satisfying click, Afonso heard his president's voice, slow and rough as it had always been.

"Afonso."

"Mr. President." He made it clear he was with company, by choosing English as the communication language. "I believe we have a problem."

"The multiple bombings." The man answered grimly, with a heavy sigh. There was a pregnant pause as Afonso waited for his president to resume his train of thought. "Shall I assume you have been informed of the military movements taking place outside Lisbon?"

"They are retreating, sir?"

"Not retreating." His president corrected. "They are taking position, and waiting for backup. Our NATO cell has already informed me that there are indeed troops being sent from Madeira, and they seem to be heading towards Coimbra."

The dark-haired Iberian gritted his teeth, in an attempt to remain calm.

"We should move our troops to Lisbon as fast as we can. The Union has to send us backup too, so we should be able to easily overtake them and then move to Coimbra."

"I am afraid not, my boy." If possible, the president had become grimmer. His voice, usually holding a spark of life, sounded dead to Afonso's terribly tired ears. "Not when they have their own cities to defend. You are isolated from the world, in that meeting, and so are they, but we have reason to believe they are the next targets. Especially Spain, since he shares borders with you."

"So you're telling me we're on our own?" His voice gained a testy edge, and he swallowed back an unspeakable anger at the prospect of giving up.

"No, not at all. What I am telling you, however, is that we can't spare troops to liberate Lisbon until we get backup to relieve us at the other cities. They have armored cars, even tanks, setting up a siege outside the city." There was a long pause, nothing more than the crackling static between the two cellphones. "I am sorry, my boy. Lisbon is lost."

 _Lisbon is lost._  The words echoed inside Afonso's head, meaningless and lost. His mind refused to accept the fact just as much as his body refused to spit out his heart. Lisbon was his heart. And his heart was still beating.

"Then, the Parliament… And you, sir…"

"As soon as the first bombing happened, we moved the government to Porto. This is where you'll meet us. I want you here as soon as possible. Farewell, my friend."

And, just like that, the line went dead.

As soon as the call ended, Portugal whipped around, taking three long strides to face Spain.

"Antonio, I will need to return to L- to Porto." He caught himself before he could really say Lisbon. He didn't really want to think about it. "If you would be so kind…"

"Do not worry, brother. There is a jet waiting to take us there in my airport."

"'Us'?" Afonso raised an eyebrow. "You're not coming."

"Bullshit. You can't stop me."

"What if something happens to Madrid while you're gone?" Afonso gritted his teeth to contain the exasperation he was feeling at the moment, let it wash over him and fade into dull irritation. "What will you do then?"

"Aid you, and get back to my people as soon as possible."

"You…" But he didn't argue further. He  _couldn't_  argue further. He was too tired, too worn out to be mad at his brother for wanting to throw himself in the face of danger to protect his older brother. "Fine. Grab whatever gear you need and let's bolt."

But, as Antonio turned to announce that the meeting was over, he was greeted with a pair of blue eyes, narrowed as if expecting something.

"Ahem. Yes, Francis?"

"You certainly haven't forgotten  _Angleterre_  and me, have you?" His tone was pleasant enough, but there was a certain eagerness to it that gave Afonso a long shiver down his back. "We'll be happy to fight at your side."

England looked less than happy, but determined nonetheless. Afonso felt a sudden surge of warmth at the sight of those green eyes, as deeply concerned for him as the more open blue ones next to him.

He set a placating hand on his brother's arm.

"No time to argue. Let's go, if they want to come as well, then that's fine."

 _We're going to need as much backup as possible._  He thought grimly, schooling his features into an impassible expression.

"Wait, no way that bastard's going anywhere without me." Spit a well-known voice, and Afonso had to stop himself from groaning as Romance got up and trudged to Spain's side, eyeing him with a look that could probably melt the entire North Pole. His brother sent him a warm grin, but it was met only with quiet resignation and the habitual frown.

"No, brother!" Cried out Italy, shooting up from his place at the table. "I can't let you go alone!"

Romano's face twisted into a mask of anger and irritation. But, beneath it, Afonso could have sworn he saw real concern.

"I can't take care of myself, you damned idiot." But he didn't give any further complains as Italy nearly ran to his side, a reluctant Germany trailing at his side.

Afonso almost laughed at that. Of course Germany would never let Italy rush to face danger alone. The blonde nation said as much, his face as stern as ever, even though the flash of affection that passed his eyes when he glanced at Italy was more than obvious to anyone willing to look.

"No way West is getting all the action." It was said so naturally that Afonso nearly had to do a double take to ensure it was Prussia who said it. The German brother, smirked at his younger brother, who was sporting a deep scowl, and merely got up, stretching his limbs. "I'm coming too."

"Ah, Germany-san, if you are going, then I would very much like to go as well." This time, it was Japan who rose, followed closely by China, who looked unsure as to whether he should be joining the younger nations in a possibly suicidal mission. Apparently, his common sense lost that battle, because he eventually joined the already far too large party.

"Hey! You're not leaving the hero out, are you?" America narrowed his eyes at him – Him! As if he was the one to blame for their ridiculously large entourage! – and stood up, flashing them a big grin. "I'm coming too. My strength might come in handy. Come on, bro. Let's help a nation in need." Canada looked a lot less sure of his willingness to help than his brother, but he stood up nonetheless, to stand next to America.

"I am assuming no one actually thought I was sitting this one out?" Came a chillingly pleasant voice from behind Afonso. The older Iberian jumped and whirled around, to come face to face with a smiling Russia. The big bulky nation was poised in a way that left no doubt he was coming, regardless of whether Portugal actually wanted him there or not, so Afonso decided to argue another time.

When he was less in danger of being annihilated, he supposed.

* * *

The flight was particularly uneventful. No one said much, no one complained, there was no usual bickering. Some hands were seen hitching towards their phones, as if compelled by the need to check if everything was okay, back home. Portugal understood. It was too dark a time to be bothered with pleasantries.

Sitting back on his chair, he closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to wander. He forbade it from wandering into the territory of the attack in itself, and he didn't even want to consider what might be the causes for such an attack. He could feel rage bubbling in his chest, trying to force its way out of him, tearing at his throat like a scream too loud to silence or a cry too fierce to quell.

He forced it down, nonetheless. It wasn't really what he wanted to think about. What intrigued him was the man.

One single man, survivor of a downright onslaught, spiritually strong enough that Portugal could establish contact with him, guide him, save at least one of his people. A man so devoted to his country that reaching across the land to touch his mind and his soul had been as easy as touching his heart, for the first time, on that History classroom, as the man – then a boy – learned of Portugal's rise and fall.

So wide-eyed and innocent.

But there was something more. There was something there, a connection that didn't feel quite right, but at the same time, fit like a glove. The man has been so familiar…. So, so familiar… But he couldn't quite place where he had met him, if he had met him at all…

"Sir, we'll be landing in t minus fifteen minutes." He looked up sharply, taking a long, deep breath to help pull himself back to the present as he looked at the man's face. A young boy, of perhaps eighteen. Maybe nineteen. He nodded.

"Very well. You may return to your post." The boy nodded, and turned his back.

Portugal let out a sigh.  _Food for thought_ , he pondered,  _but for another time_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I even being to apologize. I don't. I just apologize, I suppose. Well, here it goes. I apologize. I was a horrible writer. I let depression cut down my will to write as it cut down everything else. I am much better now, and your support sure helped it. It shouldn't be a problem, anymore. Updates should come more regularly, now.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me. You guys are the best. I love every single one of you.

**Author's Note:**

> This work can also be found on FanFiction.net, under the same name.  
> I hope you enjoyed it~


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